


You never learn

by Illidria



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, LLF Comment Project, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-13 01:00:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 83,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5688508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illidria/pseuds/Illidria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>College live can be hard for many reasons. Your backround is important, but also the people around you. And it gets even harder when your heart decides to fall for someone, who you can't even talk properly to.<br/>It's got a live of its own, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Buccaneer, William. Dormitory two, room number 307. That’s on the third floor.”

  
The young women handing him the slip of paper and key talked monotonously, sounding incredibly motivated. Before he could even open his mouth to ask the way, she was already droning living accommodations to the next person. So without thinking twice he simply followed a large group of students, all headed in one direction.

  
The first time he’d seen a school from the inside, he’d been ten years old. His family herded caribous for a living and until then nobody had cared how the children of the tribespeople were schooled. Then an education act had been passed and suddenly he and his brothers sat in a boarding school in North City. With some trouble they caught up, even though their grades suffered because of the prejudices of the teachers. With fourteen, after a growth spurt in both height and weight, he had accidently barrelled into someone during PE. The coach of the football team had seen that and very nearly forced him to join. After someone finally explained the rules to him and years of training, he had been awarded a scholarship. Central University needed a new fullback.

  
Not even him, still slightly awed by the size of Central Cities campus alone, could have missed the building. The two was painted on it, big enough to see from a mile away. After shuffling his way to the staircase he began to climb up, just to find out that his room was basically directly under the roof. He turned the key, startling his apparent roommate into very nearly falling out of the window.

  
“Sorry, I didn’t expect anybody.”

  
The man apologized, trying hard to get his breathing under control.

  
“Probably should have knocked first. William Buccaneer.”

  
He extended his hand in greeting and the other man shook it with an unexpectedly firm grip.

  
“Javed Miles.”

  
Dark skin and white hair, red eyes. Buccaneer had never seen an Ishvalan before, but everybody had told him what to look for. If his teachers had been anything, then prejudiced against everything that was even slightly different. Until he had joined the football team, he and his brothers had even been forced to keep their hair short, no one caring for their traditions or beliefs. The uncertainty in Miles eyes was plain to see, as was the flickering gaze towards a pair of shades, resting on a chest of drawers. Buccaneer chose not to treat him any different.

  
“Bunk beds, huh? I should probably sleep in the lower one, I’m not exactly a lightweight.”

  
Something akin to relief washed over his roommates face.

  
“I don’t mind taking the top bunk. You are okay with the upper half of the dresser?”

  
He nodded, for the first time really taking a look around the room. Pretty small, as expected, but he had slept in smaller rooms with more people before. Bunk bed in one corner, a tall dresser on its foot. Two desks against one wall and a little bit of empty space, big enough for a chair. They even had a window. He took a closer look.

  
“Oh no, we didn’t get the room with the fire ladder, did we?”

  
“We did, but on the bright side: We can use it as an extra space. And it faces the girl’s dorm.”

  
Almost mischievously Miles looked at him and Buccaneer stepped up to the window to take a closer look. And really, girls were filtering in and out of the building next to theirs, even though the number of windows facing into their direction was rather sparse.

  
“There are only three windows facing us. And there’s a fire escape in front of them.”

  
“Well yes, but if there ever is a fire drill, we will be front row.”

  
Buccaneer looked at Miles, eyebrows raised, and couldn’t help himself but bark a laugh. He had a feeling that he won the roommate-lottery.

  
“You know who we’re on the floor with?”

  
Now Miles face scrunched up.

  
“We share most of the floor with the new alchemy students.”

  
“What’s so bad about that?”

  
“The age rule doesn’t apply to them, promotion of talent and some such. The watchdogs will control our floor more than any other. Also they tend to blow things up, or set them on fire.”

  
He knew little about alchemy, had never seen anyone do it and couldn’t honestly say that he knew what to expect. The only thing he knew, was that someone had broken into a banks safe in North City some years ago, using alchemy. Creating an artificial doorway or some such. If those alchemists on their floor could do that too, no watchdog would ever catch them.

  
“I guess we’ll see what they’re like. I never met an alchemist before so…”

  
Buccaneer shrugged, but Miles still looked unsure. He remembered having read about the conflict in Ishval, which had been little less than a full out war. After hundreds of thousands of deaths, there was now some kind of ceasefire, but everybody felt that the conflict could start anew any moment. Faintly he remembered reading that state certified alchemists were sent to the front sometime before the ceasefire.

  
“Should they turn out to be assholes, I’ll deal with them.”

  
His new roommate seemed a bit more cheerful after that and while putting their stuff away, they talked some more.

  
“What are you studying?”

  
“Well, I’m here because of a football scholarship, so I’m in for the sports. But I also took up some courses so I can become a coach or instructor. I want to understand the theory, too. You?”

  
“History and political science. Won a scholarship too, but I’ve gotten myself a job to make ends meet.”

  
“A smartass, huh?”

  
Miles shot him a look, just to be met with a wide grin.

  
“I’m just pulling your leg, dude. I need to find myself a job too, or I’ll starve sooner or later.”

* * *

  
 “God, why did you have to hit me!?”

  
“Once more: I was startled, I didn’t mean to hit you!”

  
“You are still full of alcohol, that’s what you are! Honestly, I have no idea how you are even standing straight!”

  
“You drank as much as I did and you look not nearly as hungover as you should! Really Miles, do you have superpowers?”

  
He was startled when Miles woke him up this morning. On instinct he had gotten defensive and thrown a punch his potential attackers’ way. How should he have known that it was just his roommate, waking him so that they would get breakfast on time? His roommate who had been to the sports teams’ party with him yesterday, where they apparently had drunk so much that he wasn’t even sure what had happened.

  
“I don’t have superpowers, it is called discipline. And one or two aspirin.”

  
“Oh come on, you can let me in on your secret. It’s the glasses, isn’t it?”

  
With a small sigh his friend shook his head, grinning. They got in line and filled their plates with food, getting the last free table in the mess. Carrying on their conversation they dug in.

  
“What did even happen yesterday? I only remember the arrival of the track team.”

  
“Well, it was a pretty normal party, until you decided to hit on one of the girls of the swordsmanship team. I did not hear what you said to her, but she got pretty angry. Incredibly angry actually.”

  
Buccaneer made a face, cheeks tinted slightly red. Drunkenly hitting on someone never ended well, his tongue always ran away with him then.

  
“Some of her teammates held her back and so she decided to settle her fight with you with a drinking contest. Good for you I might add, she looked like she would cut you up.”

  
“Did I win?”

  
“No, you lost. I should add that it wasn’t even close.”

  
“And you drank as much as I did because…?”

  
“Because you coerced me into being the judge, along with one of your opponents friends. And your rule for us judges was that we had to drink just as much as you two, so we could, and I’m quoting you here: Judge us with justice. Whatever that even means.”

  
He caught his face in his hands, rubbing it. If his brothers found out that he couldn’t even remember the first party in college…. Scratch that, if his mother found out that he hit on a girl in an inappropriate way, he could start digging his own grave.

  
“Miles, I’m sorry for drawing you into that.”

  
“Nah, its fine. The girls friend was really cute, even though she quit the judging job after round eleven by passing out.”

  
Buccaneers head shot up again, looking Miles in the face. Was that colour on his cheeks?

  
“You got her number, or name?”

  
Miles white mob moved with the shaking motion of his head.

  
“No, I’m just as close to her number, as you are to sword-girls.”

  
He huffed. That was a low blow.

  
“I don’t even remember what she looks like Miles. Or what I said to her to make her so angry…”

  
“If I remember correctly, you told me that my place is in the kitchen and not in a sports team. That I should go home to my daddy and let him teach me how to be a proper women and that you would show me how a real sword looks, if I made you a sandwich.”

  
Miles pancakes fell from the in mid-air hovering fork, splashing into a puddle of syrup. One could see the shiver running through him, the voice that just had spoken chilling him, and everybody in the vicinity, to the bone.

  
Buccaneer was looking at the woman in front of him open mouthed, taking her in. In her right hand she balanced two trays laden with food, on her left side hung more than stood another young woman, apparently hungover, swaying slightly. Her gaze shot towards Miles and with a completely normal tone of voice she asked if they could sit down. His friend did not say anything, just nodded. Judging from the way he looked at the other women, he just found the girl from last night.

  
First she set down the trays, then she sat down her friend, shoving a fork into her hand.

  
“Sherry, you need to eat.”

  
And with that she dug in, shooting him glowering looks all the while, periodically using her free hand to hinder Sherry from falling face fist into her food.  
Her eyes were the colour of the sky back home and just looking into them made him fell homesick, something he hadn’t been in years. Her hair was long, blond and slightly curly, her build athletic. Her voice was chilling, yes, but he did not doubt that she was all fire in truth, scorching warmth, freezing the weak with her voice and burning those stronger to ashes. He hoped that he was fireproof.

  
“So, how bad did you want to impress me with your drinking prowess?”

  
He did not know why he said that, maybe because his guts regularly overruled his brains. Miles next to him gasped and the woman named Sherry muttered something akin to “bloody idiot”. The blondes eyes just widened and he could see her seething with anger. Several people around them started to look. Or maybe they just wondered why the temperature around them dropped.

  
“Why would I want to impress such a big, dumb buffoon like you? You’re damn lucky that I didn’t cut you into nifty little pieces yesterday!”

  
“Aww Princess, but you would miss me!”

  
Her face turned various shades of red. Miles next to him started to mutter and put his face in his hands. Several of the onlookers gasped unbelievingly. The only thing that saved him from being filleted with cutlery then, was her friend, Sherry, turning green.

  
Her face fisted in his shirt and pulled him half over the table. Angrily she whispered.

  
“Tomorrow at twelve, behind the Hakuro Hall. Be ready to get your ass kicked.”

  
And with that he slumped back into his seat, while the blonde pulled up her friend and got her out of the mess. Now the shock started to set in.

  
“What have I done?”

  
“Why didn’t you shut up? Or apologized?”

  
“I don’t know! I was just struck, you know?!”

  
“You. Are. So. Dead!”

  
Buccaneer was, he knew that. She would kill him. But still…

  
“She is even prettier when she is angry, isn’t she?”

  
Miles head hit the table.

* * *

  
Javed Miles was a calm person. He rarely showed nerves and only sometimes lost his cool. When a situation turned dangerous, he first thought of a plan and then acted. So when his roommate turned friend angered a potentially dangerous and scary women, who had access to several sharp weapons none the less, he decided to gather Intel.  
The first piece of information came in form of one of the alchemy students knocking on his door. A very buff and very tall young man stood there, asking him if William Buccaneer was his roommate. When he affirmed that admission he got advised to either keep his roommate from showing up to the fight tomorrow, or to get him to apologize. Better yet, to get him out of the country.

  
When the kid told him that the person Buccaneer pissed off was none other than his sister, Olivier Mira Armstrong, proficient in many ways to seriously injure someone, he felt his heart drop some more. He knew the Armstrong’s were a damn rich and influential family. That you better not start a fight with any of them, if you could help it.  
Buccaneer was having none of it.

  
“She’s not even level with my shoulder Miles, what can she possibly do? I mean, yes, she’s with the swordsmanship people, but she wouldn’t just cut me up on the campus.”

  
They were waiting behind the Hakuro Hall and right on time Olivier and her friend and, if his sources were right, roommate Sherry rounded the corner. Former wore a scowl, the latter looked a lot better than yesterday, throwing a smile in Miles direction. Now the only thing left for him was hoping that Buccaneer kept himself from pissing her off further…

  
“Good morning Princess, glad to see you didn’t bale out!”

  
Sherry’s face showed an expression of disbelief, which had to mirror his own. Olivier just scoffed.

  
“Let’s get this over with.”

  
While the girls got ready a few feet away from them, he lowly spoke with Buccaneer.

  
“Do you want to die!?”

  
“I can’t help myself Miles, when she looks at me my brain just zaps out!”

  
“Well hold yourself back, or I’ll have to send your corpse to your family in tiny little pieces!”

  
Apparently Olivier was ready, moving a few feet away from the wall, leaving Sherry behind. Buccaneer moved to stand opposite of her that worrying grin again forming on his face.

  
“Nice _arms_ , Princess.”

  
“Was he dropped on his head when he was a kid?”

  
Next to him stood Sherry and he couldn’t help but smile, at least until he saw the sword she was holding.

  
“Is that yours?!”

  
“No, it’s Livs, but she had to promise me to hand it over before fighting that big guy. Mopping up behind her gets old very fast.”

  
Apparently he still looked aghast.

  
“Let’s just say that nobody in our hall dares to make a sound at night.”

  
Meanwhile the other two got ready to fight, taking stances, arms raised. Subtly Olivier looked at Sherry.

  
“Oh yeah, sorry.” She pulled herself up to full height. “Ready? Fight!”

  
Before anybody knew what was happening, Buccaneer was caught in a vicious headlock, clearly having underestimated his opponent.

  
“So your name is Javed?”

  
“Yeah, how do you know?”

  
Buccaneer started to think and used his free hand to pull Olivier over his head, freeing himself from the headlock.

  
“Olivier likes to gather intel on the people she fights and her little brother lives on the same floor as you, so…”

  
“So him coming to warn us was spying?”

  
Olivier landed on her feet gracefully and immediately turned towards her opponent, showering him with blows of her tightly clenched fists.

  
“No, he was honestly concerned for your friend’s wellbeing. And maybe he spied a little bit.”

  
“I knew something was fishy about that.”

  
For some time the two traded blows, which consisted of Buccaneer getting hit and Olivier dodging his attempts to strike.

  
“So, you want to go on a date sometime?”

  
“Yeah.” Miles simply had to smile “that would be nice.”

  
A few feet apart Olivier and Buccaneer came to rest, both breathing hard. For someone basically getting his ass handed to him, his friend had a damn big ego.

  
“You’ve got enough already Princess? And I thought you had the stamina to keep up with me.”

  
Four steps till she reached him, dropping to the floor, kicking his legs from under him. In a flash she had his hands pinned over his head, ending up face to face with him. Neither Sherry nor Miles could hear what she said to him, but they did saw Buccaneers surprised expression change to a wide grin.

  
Rearing his head up for a fraction, he kissed her right on the lips.

  
He apparently took her by surprise with this, because for a few seconds she seemed unsure of what to do. Then she sat up, punching him straight in the face. The noise of bone cracking filled the air.

  
Calmly Olivier got up and walked over to Sherry and him, taking her jacket and sword, expression neutral. Sherry handed him a little slip of paper, smiling at him and saying her goodbyes. Miles went over to Buccaneer.

  
His friend lay on the floor, blood from his nose covering the lower half of his face. Still, he was smiling wide.

  
“Can you stand?”

  
“Yeah.”

  
Slowly Buccaneer got himself into a sitting position, softly touching his squished nose, the smile never leaving him.

  
“What did she say to you?”

  
Buccaneer didn’t answer, but looked at him with a look that promised even more trouble. Miles still felt that it was his duty to help him.

  
“We need to get you to a doctor.”

  
“Miles, I’m swearing on my mother, for a second she kissed me _back_!”

  
Could this man’s hope be crushed by nothing?

  
“We definitely need to get you to a doctor!”


	2. Chapter 2

“How did it go?”

Sherry pulled her second leg through the open window, having climbed up the fire ladder. Grinning widely she looked Olivier’s way, who sat cross-legged on their beanbag, book in lap. Enthusiasm wasn’t a strong enough word to describe Sherry’s tone.

“That guy is a romantic genius!”

Olivier’s eyebrows shot up, as did one corner of her mouth.

“That good?”

“That good! You know that bookstore right? Moby Dickens?”

Sherry’s question was answered by Olivier, pointing at all the books throughout their dorm.

“Of course I do Sherry, you remember we’ve got a serious reading problem, right?”

“Right, sorry. It’s just, we picked a book each, hoping that the other likes it. And we both picked _Pride and Prejudice_! That’s a sign!”

Nothing could quell the short haired women’s excitement as she paced through the small room, taking off her shoes, putting her bag away, almost bursting with happiness.

“And that wasn’t the end of it! Then he took me to this park, the one near Central Command. Blanket, picnic basket, everything apparently prepared beforehand. We gazed at the starts and he gave me his jacket and … ah.”

Sherry sat on the bed with a happy sigh, face in her hands. They had been trying to go on a date for nearly two months now, their schedules getting in the way time and time again. Even today wouldn’t have been possible, hadn’t Buccaneer and Olivier finally and separately realised that the fire ladder was the solution to Miles and Sherry’s problem. The rules were strict after all, especially during the week.

“So there’s going to be another date?”

Olivier didn’t fight the small smile that graced her mouth, this was her best friend after all. And there certainly were worse people than Miles.

“We did not set a date yet, with exams right around the corner, but we thought that it would be nice to eat breakfast together. I mean, we all eat in the same mess after all, so why not?”

Betrayal, Olivier knew it would happen sooner or later. Still, she owed her friend to ask first.

“And with together you mean…?”

“You, me, Javed and Bucky.”

There was the snag. Sherry caught the face Olivier made, which wasn’t entirely unexpected.

“Come on Liv, he really isn’t so bad! His mouth runs away with him sometimes, yes, but everybody tells me that this only happens when you are near!”

“So now it’s my fault that he spews this bullshit?!”

Olivier’s temper was flaring instantly, Sherry keeping equally cool.

“At the first party you told me that he looked sexy…”

“Yeah, but then he opened his mouth!”

“He was drunk!”

“That’s no excuse!”

“Yeah, you’re right, it isn’t. But would you at least try to eat breakfast in his presence? It would mean a lot to me.”

Sherry tried her best puppy eyes, which seemed to have little to no effect on her friend. Well, growing up with a lot of younger, puppy eyed siblings seemed to make you immune. Still, she knew how to get Olivier to join them.

“So he can kiss _that_ well?”

Angrily Olivier shifted in the beanbag, the crunching noise loud in the small room. With a soft clunk her book hit the floor, having slipped from her lap.

_The Art of War. How fitting._

“No, he doesn’t! He just caught me off guard that day!”

“Keep telling yourself that. I mean, if it didn’t mean anything to you, why are you so averse to being near him? It’s not like you have feelings for him, don’t you?”

“Oh, if got feelings for him!”

Sherry felt her eyebrows meet her hairline, mouth hanging open in shock.

“Burning hatred is one of them!”

She closed her mouth again. _False alarm._

“So then, you two eat, Javed and I can talk, nothing bad will happen. Or are you afraid to spend time with him?”

Exasperated Olivier got up. No one accused her of being afraid of anybody! Sherry was shot a glare, but after almost five years of friendship she was prone to it. And she had the blue-eyed woman right where she wanted her.

“Of course I’m not afraid! He’s just pig-headed buffoon who can’t tell a spoon from a knife!”

“Good, so I can count you in.”

Sherry had a hard time hiding her smug smile.

“We’ll meet them at eight, so we should probably go to bed now. And Liv?”

The still agitated blonde looked at her, hair swinging behind her like a whip, giving a noncommittal grunt.

“He must kiss really well. Because if you want to or not, you’ve got it baaad!”

Not even the pillow hitting her face could dampen her mood.

* * *

 

After the semester break the shared breakfasts extended to shared lunches. Miles and Sherry had officially started a relationship and Buccaneer and Olivier ate, which kept them from fighting, at least most of the time. Often they were joined by Karley and Henschel, the former a teammate of Olivier, which whom she also shared some classes. The latter a teammate of Buccaneer, who was also Karley’s roommate. Only sometimes Olivier’s brother sat with them and most of the time the siblings would fight in a most spectacular, but somewhat loving, way.

Sherry found out that Buccaneer obviously told no one how he broke his nose, which left Olivier with the smuggest smile she had ever witnessed. The people sitting with them usually distracted the big guy with talk of upcoming parties, sporting events and girls, which kept him from saying more stupid stuff to her best friend. That in turn kept Olivier from blowing a fuse, which kept Sherry from having to calm her down. Respite for everyone involved.

The Christmas break had separated them, as each and every one of them had visited his or her respective family, with varying degrees of success. Miles had visited his mother, who lived about an hour away from Central, a picture of his girlfriend in his bag. Blushing slightly he had told them how he was lovingly doted on. Sherry had also spent happy times with her family, who was not only supporting her financially, but also emotionally, incredibly proud of the soon to be medical Doctor in their family. Nervously she had shown them a picture of her boyfriend without his glasses on, not able to gauge their reaction. After a few hushed words of her parents, they had told her that he was invited to accompany her when she next visited.

Buccaneer had made the journey up North, the winter break his only chance to meet up with his family. He told them that they usually lived nomadic and only spent about two months each year in one place, always at the height of winter, when the snow was so deep that even the caribous couldn’t plough through it. Proudly he had told them how it was the first time he met them since coming of age, how he had been marked an adult in their community and how happy everybody had been to see him after more than two years of not being able to visit. Javed had told her of the detailed and interleaved patterns tattooed on his legs now, of all the keepsakes he now cluttered their room with. Not that he minded.

And then there had been Olivier. Intently she had listened when they told their tales, one corner of her mouth sometimes lifting, forming a half smile, but emotionless otherwise. Sherry had once spent a week at her friend’s home, years ago, when they both had still been in the boarding school. She knew that Christmas with them couldn’t have been a nice affair, when it came to her parents at least. At their first night back in College, when they had turned their lights off, Liv had told her how her mother tried to set her up with some rich bloke again, how she tried to talk her out of College. That such a pretty girl like her didn’t need to have her head filled with silly ideas. Her mother, who still though that Olivier was studying dance and not engineering. The boys she told some noncommittal kind of family story. Never would she talk badly about her family in public.

After Olivier had ended her story that lunch, almost four weeks ago, Sherry had suddenly known what to do. Her friend would never admit to liking someone in a romantic way, would never ask anyone for a date to get to know them better. She only knew the sibling kind of love and had no trust in any other.

She would have to talk Javed into helping her.

* * *

 

He couldn’t believe that he was helping his girlfriend with her scheme. It was harebrained! If one of them found out what they were up to, they would be sent to their respective families in a coffin! And still here he sat, about to ask his roommate questions that could put his life in danger.

“So, we’re here because you still got the hots for her?”

His glasses did nothing to lessen the intensity of his friends gaze.

The swordsmanship-team was holding a tournament today, in which Olivier would take part. Welded together by parties, shared food, movies, a mostly shared mind-set and occasional screaming, they had come as moral support. Not that Miles was feeling especially save, surrounded by so many sharp object-enthusiasts.

“If you mean that she’s the most desirable women I’ve ever met, then yes Miles, I still got the hots for her.”

“Bucc, she hates your guts!”

“Nah, she doesn’t. I’m still alive, aren’t I? Sherry told me that if she really hated me all that much, I would be dead by now.”

He had a point. Sherry had told him as much too, of Olivier’s sometimes unique ways to show her affection. Still he thought that threatening dismemberment wasn’t one of them.

“But you are aware that you’re pushing it with your stupid patter, right?”

“Maybe my sub-consciousness knows that a women like her would never notice me for my looks?”

Miles had to admit that his friends’ insight on the matter caught him unprepared. He also had to admit that his stupid misogynistic jokes, which only ever were told in Olivier’s presence anyway, had greatly reduced in number. But still.

“A women like her?”

“She’s strong, independent and super smart. A few of my teammates are in her class. She’s the only women there and still acing everything, even though she has to work twice as hard as them. She’s also very caring.”

“Caring?”

For a fact Miles knew that this was true, but for Sherry’s sake, he had to make sure Bucc truly meant everything he said. His girlfriend would not risk helping him, if there was any chance of Olivier getting hurt.

“In a covert way, yes. She takes care of Sherry when she’s drunk, keeps an eye out for her little brother and even though she knows of your” for a second he paused, making sure no one was listening in,” heritage, she never told anybody.”

Now he was put out, not believing what he heard.

“She doesn’t know!”

Bucc grinned at him, shaking his head.

“She doesn’t care.”

And when he looked at his friends face them, still unsure of what to do with the fact that one person more _knew_ , he saw something akin to pride. Because of his witty answers or because of her actions, he didn’t know and honestly, with Buccaneer it was sometimes hard to tell.

“There she is!”

Sherry plopped down between them, excitedly exclaiming and pointing towards her friend. And really, there she was, walking through the hall up to her opponent. Her long blond hair tightly plaited to her head, so it couldn’t get in the way, her usual clothing replaced by a pair of white pants and a tank.

“He’s from Southern?”

“Yes. Their fencing team is here for the tournament and when he heard that they had someone on the team placed higher in the ranking for sabre duels, he challenged her.”

Miles suggested that being friends with someone for so long sooner or later got you interested in their hobbies. Even if said hobby was basically the professional hitting of an opponent with a sharp object. Good thing that Buccaneer seemed to be just as enthusiastic about it, as that would save him from being roped into lengthy conversations about it. Being roped into playing matchmaker was enough for him.

“So that’s why their fight is the last for today, there’s something on the line?”

“For him a better position in the ranking. She gains nothing from it, except for practice.”

“And the satisfaction of beating someone up.”

“Well, that too. But if she wins that, more people will challenge her and if she wants to challenge someone, they are more likely to accept. That’s the only way to move up the ranks.”

Below them, in front of two swordsmanship-teams, basically her complete engineering course and several other people, among them her brother and several other alchemy students, the two opponents took a fighting stance.

The referee checked their swords one last time, making sure the plastic sleeves were securely set over them. No one wanted to see a chopped off arm.

“The first to score three full points wins! Torso gains a full point, extremities half a point. A hit to the head results in immediate disqualification! Are you ready?”

Both, Olivier and the redhead from Southern nodded, weapons at the ready.

“En garde!”

Miles was astounded at what speed the young man advanced, obviously trying to score a fast point. Equally astounded he was because of how the man underestimated Armstrong’s capability to parry his attack. With a metallic sound, barely dulled by the plastic sleeves, the heavy sabres met, Armstrong looking determinate, the southern boy surprised.

Using her other hand, pressing it against the back of her sword, she pushed him away, creating space. Then she moved to attack, gracefully and so fast that he honestly had trouble following her moves. Her opponent apparently had to, because with a healthy smack her sabre made contact with his side.

In other countries it was normal to wear protective gear while fighting, that much he knew. But this was Amestris and a military nation to the core. Buccaneer once told him that the highest ranked sabre fighter in the whole country was none other than the Fuhrer himself.

The referee readied the two fighters for the next bout and when they were free to attack again the blows traded were hard, but leading neither of them towards a point. When he swung at her feet, she jumped, purely out of instinct and while the boy tried to regain his balance, she gracefully landed and rounded him, her sabres point pushing into his right shoulder blade.

Now the crowd cheered, victory near. Again the referee separated them, again they attacked. But now frustration creeped into the Southern student. He swung his sabre high, almost hitting her head, but she could duck in time. The spectators in the hall cried out, knowing they had just witnessed a near violation of the rules, but nobody stepped in. As soon as Armstrong had pulled herself to full height again, another swing of his sabre neared, this time hitting her right arm with a sickening sound.

Several people were on their feet, Buccaneer was shouting, Sherry was cursing. The boy had stepped back again, a nasty smile clear to see. Armstrong still stood, taking her sword with her left hand, cradling her right and obviously broken arm against her body, only the smallest signs of pain scurrying over her face while doing so.

“He did that on purpose!” Buccaneers voice was an angry snarl, “disable them if you cannot beat them. That wimp knew that she was better than him!”

The Southern students’ buddies were already clapping him on the back, but with a weird feeling Miles noticed that Armstrong hadn’t left the planche yet and was still talking with the referee. In his head it all came together.

“She’s going to keep fighting!”

Many heard and an uproar went through the crowd. Apparently there was a rule that allowed her to keep fighting if she wanted to, because the referee again asked them to take their stances. Miles vowed to ask her about that after the fight was over.

Sabre in left hand she got ready, eyes fixed on her opponent, who started to look nervous. After a series of parried attacks he was able to hit her side, her defence not yet up to what she could do with her right hand. Getting ready for the next attack, one could see her think. The hall got quiet.

On last time the referee called en garde and seven times their sabres clashed before the fight came to an end. When he attacked she turned the right side of her body towards him and, almost tearing a shout from her lips, the boy hit her right upper arm again. Then a cheer went to the crowd. The tip of her sabre pressed slightly into his chest, right where his heart was.

* * *

 

It took some time for her friends to reach her after the match. She had been crowded by the trainer, her teammates, the referees and medics, all talking at the same time. At one point her brother had been able to cut through them, congratulated her on the magnificent fight and asked her where she would like to get her arm set. Then he walked away, calling the hospital in advance.

His hulking shape had been replaced by another, equally as hulking, one and soon after she had found herself sitting in the locker room with Sherry, who made a makeshift sling for her arm out of a shawl and put her in a huge sweatshirt with a zipper in front, wherever the hell she had gotten that from. Her coat was carefully put over her shoulders and accompanied by three people they had made their way to the hospital.

They only sat in the waiting room for five minutes until she was called into the doctor’s office and after some time she walked out with a baby blue cast around her arm. A broken humerus and swelling in the elbow joint, but nothing that wouldn’t be fine in a few weeks’ time. Sherry again helped her with putting some clothes on, muttering about January in Central and how it could be so damn cold when not a flake of snow was in sight. Her brother, having caught up with them, was getting everything ready with the receptionist and when they asked if she wanted to get back to the campus, she told them that she was hungry. Sherry muttered something about awfully strong painkillers.

And only after the five of them had gotten something to eat for her and clinked glassed because of her win they walked back to the campus in high spirits. Miles pecked Sherry on the cheek and Buccaneer saluted her, which she sloppily returned. Alex hugged her carefully and vowed not to tell their parents. Then the boys were off and Sherry got her to their room, liberally giving up her lower bunk, so that her friend wouldn’t have to climb up.

And through the painkiller-induced thick fog in her mind, Olivier suddenly wanted to know where exactly this soft sweatshirt she was wearing came from.

“Sherry?”

“Mhm?”

“That sweater, where did you get it from?”

The duckboard above her groaned in the darkness, her friend turning on the unfamiliar mattress.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Is smells nice.”

Olivier couldn’t be sure about anything at the moment, but was Sherry snickering above her?

“It’s Buccaneers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read and Review people, or I will never improve!  
> I know fencing and that it works differently, but for the sake of the story and the setting, I somewhat toned it down with the rules.  
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers,  
> I personally feel that the characters are pretty OOC in this chapter. But I also think that they aren't, because they are still young and this thing really diverges from canon anyways so, gah!? I really don't know.  
> Have fun!

Two weeks ago Sherry had watched as Olivier had her arm broken by some southern idiot. Two weeks of wrangling clothes on her less then cooperating form. Two weeks of cutting meat to bite sized little bits, which was the greatest insult Olivier ever had to endure. Two weeks of Buccaneer asking if he could sign the cast, or at least draw a pattern on it.

In her engineering class a soon due group-project was now done by Olivier explaining the men in her group what to do, which grated on her nerves greatly. She was used to doing everything on her own after all, usual projects being one-(wo)man-shows. Word soon reached Sherry’s ears that Olivier explained well and everything would get done with some time to spare, many impressed with her ability to almost effortlessly lead such a big group of people. But still: Her best friend was incredibly irritated since her arm was put in the cast and even more so, with Valentine’s Day right around the corner.

Liv wasn’t one to get irritated by couples celebrating that day, even though she was not fond of overzealous public displays of affection. The thing putting her on edge was the fact that Valentine’s Day was also her birthday. Probably one of the best kept secrets in all of Amestris and something even Sherry had only found out by mere chance. The trouble you could get in for opening a letter after not reading the address properly. The day would blow over without much of a fuss usually, as Olivier acted like it was just another day aside from being congratulated by Sherry and receiving a few letters and packages from home.

The problem was that her brother had just sat down at their table in the mess, Olivier not having arrived yet, asking them if they could relay her a message. That he had talked their parents out of a family dinner, claiming that she was celebrating with her friends and that he would meet her for breakfast tomorrow and that their sisters would arrive at ten o’clock. Then he left.

Buccaneer looked like Christmas came early.

“Olivier is born on Valentine’s day? Our Olivier?”

He kept his voice somewhat down at least, perhaps because he was almost choking on his laughter. She was only called “Princess” when she could hear, as he claimed it was funnier that way.

“Will you shut up! If you are to blame that more people find out, you’ll be killed for real this time!”

Even Javed looked shocked at her little outburst. Buccaneer was unfazed.

“The one day of the year were everything is pink and everyplace you go romantic love is basically showed down your throat Olivier has to celebrate her birthday?”

Still he was snickering, even though he had listened to her and kept his voice down. Maybe he was also a little bit scared, as the person in question could arrive at any moment.

“Yes, and that’s exactly why she hates it, so keep it down!”

In the meanwhile her boyfriend looked thoughtful, chewing on his food.

“So she doesn’t celebrate it?”

His glasses hid his eyes, but over time she had learned to read his body language well enough. Soon after she had figured him out somewhat, she noticed that figuring people out was one of his greatest guilty pleasures. Just from the slump of his shoulders alone she could tell that he just gathered a new piece to the puzzle that was Olivier. Not without some red tinge to his cheeks he had told her that he first tried to find out if she would really go through with killing Bucky. Now he wanted to find out if his best friend even had a chance with the seemingly icy women, having been roped into the set-those-two-up-plan by her.

“No, not really. Her family tended to go slightly over the top with it, always inviting a bunch of people she hates, setting up a kissing both and such. From what I gathered they tended to make fun of it too, joking about the reluctant girl when she refused to go out with someone.”

“So we shouldn’t do anything?”

Apparently Bucky had pulled himself together, because now he was listening to her with a serious expression. His question spoke of one thing she had gathered about him: He was very mindful not to hurt someone’s feelings if he could help it. And over the last semester he had gathered that Olivier paired with her family usually meant hurt feelings.

“Nothing. Congratulate her if you must, but only where no one can see or hear. I usually get her a gift, but saving the last donut from the breakfast buffet is usually sufficient, especially now, with the arm slowing her down and everything.”

Both men nodded simultaneously, while she could see Olivier nearing their table in the distance, balancing her tray in one hand, her right arm in the sling.

“She’s coming!”

Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible all three of them greeted Olivier enthusiastically, looking at her, forgetting to turn away. Already she had dug into her food, mouth full of mashed potatoes, when she caught them starring. She didn’t bother with swallowing first.

“What?!”

The simultaneous “Nothing.” Of the boys was drowned out by a sound of disgust.

“God Olivier, chew with your mouth shut! I really don’t need to see this!”

“I always eat like this!”

“Yes, and I always tell you to stop eating like you do! There’re truckers with better manners than you!”

“Oh shut it!”

She looked angrily at Olivier, who looked angrily at her, while the boys wore an expression of bewilderment. Then both huffed, eating in silence. Sherry pretended not to see the look the soulmates on the other side of the table exchanged.

“Yeah, I think we got to go now, right Bucc?”

“Yeah, I thing we do. Bye girls!”

“See you tomorrow Sherry!”

Faster than ever before both left the table, Miles at least having the decency to kiss his girlfriend goodbye before fleeing the scene. After their dust settled, the girls turned to each other.

“Good one, I’ve got to admit that. What did you want the boys to know nothing of?”

“I need to buy a dress for tomorrows Valentines date with Javed and need your help.”

Olivier groaned.

* * *

 

It hadn’t really been a normal Saturday. Miles had basically kicked him out of bed and forced him to shower, which was a bit weird considering the day and time, but he had submitted to his friend’s sense for keeping track of things. Half an hour earlier than usual they had stood in line in the mess and lowly and completely embarrassed Miles had whispered a few choice sentences to him.

“Sherry and I want to help you with Armstrong. We deduced that she doesn’t hate you and that you seriously mean it when it comes to her and are willing to try to win her over… or make her hate you a bit less. Honestly, I’m not really sure when it comes to her.”

The situation was in no way made more absurd by Miles speaking so quietly that he had to bend his bulk down to hear anything.

“We are to get breakfast, avoid everything heart shaped and at no point are we to even remotely mention anything birthday related. Apparently Olivier had a very unpleasant conversation on the telephone with her mother yesterday.”

He decided to take his friends words without comment, at least untill they reached their usual table. Instead he simply started to pile food onto his tray, knowing well enough what Olivier liked to eat. Both, Betty the cahier and Miles the doubter looked at his laden tray weirdly, put he paid them little mind, paid and went to sit down.

Not even half a minute later his roommate joined him, still looking uncomfortable.

“How do you know that she talked to her mother? Sherry?”

“Apparently nearly every woman on the campus knows. The phone booths are in the entrance hall of the girl’s dorm and as you know Olivier has quite a … short temper.”

He nodded at that answer, his imagination painting him a pretty good picture of what must have gone down. Olivier talked only rarely directly to him, but he picked up enough from her stories and the stuff her brother sometimes said. After Sherry had dropped him one or two sentences after a particularly awful patter about her studying something more girly like dance, he had gotten the gist of Olivier’s mother’s mind-set. Opposite of him Miles still looked nervous. Time to unban him.

“So you asked those badly concealed questions about my intentions with her, because you wanted to help?”

“Sherry roped me into it, wanted to know if you mean it, whatever that means…. You’re not mad, are you?”

It was funny to see Miles squirm like that; he couldn’t deny it. But the boy had to save up some of his nerve for his big date today, so he decided on mercy.

“I’m not mad, but you could’ve just asked me straight out, you know? And by the way: I’m pretty sure Sherry wanted to find out if I just wanted a quick fuck with Olivier.”

Miles nearly choked on his pancake. He just had to bark a laugh.

“What? Doesn’t that phrase exist in your chivalrous codex? A lot of guys just talk to someone because they want to get in their pants.”

“But not you?”

“No, not me.”

He couldn’t keep the grin from creeping over his face and Miles too looked like a weight had lifted off of his shoulders.

“Your Lady would’ve castrated you if I were, right?”

“You’ve got no idea! She and Olivier are really protective of each other!”

“Let me put it that way: Olivier’s like an Igloo.”

“What?!”

“Ever been inside an Igloo?”

“No, why?”

“An Igloo is icy cold from the outside, the entrance is small and it takes time and care to get in. However, when you made it inside you not only find shelter from the storm, but also a warm home.”

“Ew, dude! You know that this sounds like a code for something I’d rather not imagine?!”

And now he laughed, loud and gruffly like he only rarely did, Miles joining in after a few more moments of trying to get over the last mental image. Through the whole mess his eyes made contact with icy blues and he was feeling something akin to a flutter when he noticed the smallest of smiles pulling at the corresponding mouth.

“We should cut it now Miles, the ladies are on their way.”

Miles turned and waved and when the two went to get some scraps of food from the thoroughly razed buffet, Buccaneer took the chance to muster the birthday child. The arm was still in its cast and he could only wonder how much time it had to take to get her dressed in the morning. It hadn’t been exactly tank top weather those last few weeks and wrangling several layers of clothing over a cast and then putting the arm in a sling, couldn’t be easy. Hence why they were late for breakfast those last two weeks.

More troubling were the dark circles under her eyes that spoke of lost sleep and the pallid look of her skin. The fight on the telephone had to have been quite a big one if she looked like that. He contemplated asking her about it, but deemed the breakfast table the wrong place for it.

Almost empty trays made contact with the table and with a big sigh Olivier slumped into the seat next to him, while Sherry sat down next to her boyfriend.

“Morning.”

Usually Olivier struck him as a morning person, but exceptions seemed to confirm the rule in this case.

“Morning.”

A nod and she looked disdainfully at her tray, while Miles and Sherry greeted the other a little bit more intimately, in honour of the day. He shoved over his laden plate.

“We saved you guys something.”

Narrowed eyes looked at him and for a short moment he felt like he had just been scanned by a lie detector, but then Olivier took a donut with her left hand, murmuring her thanks. He smiled to himself then and leaned back in his chair, sometimes stealing a look at the women sitting next to him as she listened to Miles and Sherry’s plans for the day, munching through everything his plate had to offer.

* * *

 

When it neared midnight, he remembered what he had promised Sherry in the morning. On the way outside she had pulled him aside and asked him to check on Olivier, should she need any help because of her arm. All people involved knew that she was too stubborn to ask. And so he climbed down the fire ladder of his dorm and made his way over the lawn between the dorms.

He had thought she was hot when she stood in front of him the first… well, second time. He still did. Her eyes had captivated him, blue like the sky over the mountain range of Briggs. Suddenly he had felt at home and homesick at once. Her hair had the colour of the wild wheat that grew in springtime and by his ancestors, his brothers would have a good laugh if he ever said those things aloud.

She had beaten him up good for the shit he talked, which had somehow made everything even better. When he learned _what_ she studied he had first been taken aback, the idea alone seeming foreign to him. The only job with technology that was done by women was automail engineering, and even that wasn’t common, at least in Amestris. He knew from his mother that it was completely usual for men and women to work in the same jobs in Drachma. The concept of gender didn’t extend to the job-world there. And Olivier was damn good at what she did. Her grades were apparently hard to beat, even though the Prof was a misogynistic pig, according to Sherry at least.

Every morning she went for a run, climbing down the fire ladder before the crack of dawn. When she fought with her sabre she was grace and strength, combined into a fast whirlwind of energy. And when she fought that southern boy she had simply changed the rule of the games, exchanging half a point for a full one from her opponent. All the while cradling a broken arm against her body, which alone would have sent most people crying.

To everybody she seemed commanding and icy hard and she _was_. But she was also loving and caring and somehow even fragile, even though she hid that particular detail very well. There was pain insider of her, something that had her heart in a chokehold. He could see it in her eyes and in the way she held herself. He could see it in those short little moments were she was millimetres away from simply letting go and laughing freely, only to hold herself back at the last second. And to him it was fine that she didn’t want to let go in front of others, he never liked that either, because his troubles were not theirs.

But just maybe, he still wanted to hear her laugh. And maybe, he thought, laughing inwardly, he was observing her a bit _too_ much.

It was a good thing that the fire ladder groaned audibly when you climbed it, because he was sure that she would have run him through with that sword of hers if he startled her. This way she had already opened the window, gracing him with a look of absolute bewilderment.

“What the actual fuck are you doing here?!”

People had been happier to see him before.

“Sherry send me. In case you need help with anything, because, you know…”

He trailed of lamely, gesturing to her arm. Olivier huffed.

“That’s not needed, I can handle myself.”

She sounded almost hostile and he took a closer look at her face. Still pallid, the skin around her eyes reddish. With a small start he noticed that she must have cried and for a short moment he contemplated asking her about it. The thought that she wouldn’t appreciate that came to mind and that they weren’t exactly close friends. He wouldn’t appreciate a direct question in this situation.

So he settled for the next best thing.

“Sure you don’t need help with anything?”

With narrowed eyes she looked at him and she shuffled for a short moment, then she seemed to make up her mind.

“You wait outside; I’ll be there in a minute.”

And true to her word she climbed out of the window after less than a minute, coat in hand. Not without difficulty she pulled it up and over her shoulders, sitting down next to him. After rummaging through her pockets she pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

“I can’t light the damn thing with my left hand.”

She handed the lighter to him and fished one of the cigarettes out of the pack.

“Had a bad day?”

“What’s it to you?”

He shrugged, turning the lighter in his hands.

“I only want to help.”

“Because you feel compelled to help a princess when she’s stuck in a tower?”

“No, because I know how much it can help when someone listens to you, even though they maybe never experienced the same problems you did.”

She was quiet for some time after that, turning the cigarette in her hands, looking into the distance.

“My mother does not know that I study engineering. She thinks I’m studying dance and that I will come home by the end of the next semester. If she knew she would probably throw the biggest fit in history and finally lock me up ‘till she gets me married. She doesn’t know that I broke my arm either, because she always thought that I’ve given up, and I quote: That unseemly boy-hobby.”

Next to him he heard her take a deep breath, almost shaky, and decided to not look at her, to give her the freedom to talk unobserved, even though not unheard.

“Alex thought up an excuse for me why I couldn’t come home for my… for today. But it was planned that my sisters visit today. Apparently my Mother found that out, because yesterday afternoon she informed me that they were going on a trip today and could not come. It’s not the first time that something like this happened and it seems to be her way to get me to conform to her rules.”

She paused in her talk for a bit and he simply listened to her breathing for a while. Then he brought her story to a close, quietly.

“You fear what will happen when she finds out that you lied to her about your studies?”

And now he looked her way, seeing her nod. That was what kept her up at night. The ruined day, the fear of what was to come. The strain of keeping something you loved secret from people you loved.

“Your dad knows?”

“Yeah. First he was against it and so I went and applied for a scholarship instead. I even won it. But then Dad thought about it again and took over the tuition. Would have been quite a scandal too, the daughter of the richest man in the country taking a scholarship from some poor kid. But when Mother finds out, then… “

That they lapsed into silence seemed to be a common thing, even though it didn’t seem all to uncomfortable. When he spoke next it was with an honesty that brooked no contradiction.

“Then you’ll deal with it. And we’ll help you any way we can. Sherry, Miles and me.”

“You don’t even known me for a year. I could still kill you.”

But there was a smile on her face when she said that and he again looked at the lighter in his hands. With a smooth move he took the cigarettes from her and threw them as far as he could.

“What was that for?!”

“The lighter is engraved, it felt wrong to throw it away.”

She looked at him incredulously.

“You are an ass.”

“Yeah. But you don’t need those coffin nails.”

He tried grinning at her and the anger in her face lessened somewhat. He handed the lighter over.

“Well, I take it that you don’t need anything?”

She nodded.

“Then I’ll take my leave now.

He started to climb down the ladder and when he reached the foot of it, he caught her looking at him from above. He had an awful idea then.

“Good night Princess and one more thing…”

She leaned forward, waiting.

“Happy Birthday!”

She flipped him off.

* * *

 

After watching the big guy as he climbed up the ladder to his room and squeezed his huge bulk through the tiny window, she too decided to go back inside. The air was cold and finally she felt like she could sleep. Standing up she noticed a little square of paper, laying where Buccaneer had sat not even ten minutes ago. Sherry always complained about her leaving things on their little “balcony”, so she took it inside, deciding to give it back to the big fool on the next day.

Until she read her name that was. In a tiny scrawl she found it on the paper, which seemed to be filled with something. While her mind read the words “Happy Birthday”, her hands were already unwrapping the gift.

Dangling from a long leather band was a tooth. Big and sharp, interleaved, delicate patterns engraved into it. If she wasn’t mistaken it was a bear’s tooth and when she ruffled through the rest of the wrapping paper she found some more writing on the inside.

_Seemed to fit you. Alex spilled the beans. Don’t kill me – Buccaneer_


	4. Chapter 4

There was no denying that something had changed between them. While eating they now talked to each other, animatedly and politely, which had left Miles staring open mouthed the first time he witnessed it. They still fought a lot, but that now had a playful quality to it. And, like all of this wasn’t enough to make Sherry grow suspicious, she witnessed Olivier explaining math to Bucky, shortly before the finals.

Both, Javed and her, had feared that the big guy would say something stupid on Valentine’s Day, and when he hadn’t, they thought that he would muck it up when looking after her. Neither time he did and Sherry had been elated that their plan was working so well, especially now that Bucky knew of it. The damper to everything came the Sunday after, when she had pestered him with some more tips concerning Liv during a shared lunch.

“…and don’t ever wear an overpowering after shave when she’s near, she hates that.”

“Sherry…”

He was trying to interject for some time now, but she was having none of it. She was doing him a favour after all.

“She loves foreign food though, especially Xingese cuisine….”

“Sherry!”

He almost shouted, which did shut her up, even though she had to admit that she almost felt offended by that. She couldn’t keep the snide tone out of her voice.

“What!?”

“I don’t want to hear that. All of this is extremely personal!”

Her insult made way for bafflement.

“But I thought you want to get together with her! All of this will help you.”

“Still I’m sure that Olivier wouldn’t appreciate you telling me all of this.”

“I’m trying to help you out! What were you planning on doing?”

“Nothing.”

She had no words to describe this man’s gal. Hadn’t Javed confirmed that Bucky was absolutely in love with Liv? That he would do anything?

“What do you mean by nothing? How do you expect to make someone fall for you without doing anything?”

Maybe she was getting angry. And maybe she parroted his “Nothing” in an arsey way, but his slight smile wasn’t helping her temper.

“Sherry…”

And she was almost on her feet then, because he sounded like he was explaining something very easy to a child.

“… I will do nothing, because Olivier doesn’t need anything. She hates it when someone makes a fuss over her. When someone only mentions the word date when she’s near you can already see the pressure building inside of her. From what I know love and marriage and dating were and are pushed onto her when she’s at home. We really shouldn’t push it onto her too, it just makes her super uncomfortable.”

Sherry was sitting again. William Buccaneer was a bawdy and outgoing man, neither overseen nor overheard. She knew for a fact that he had a good head on his shoulders. that he wasn’t just what her sisters called a fuckboy. But she hadn’t expected him to have glimpsed so thoroughly into her friend’s inner workings.

“So you won’t do anything?”

“I will still be there for her, any way she needs me. And should she one day decide that she trusts and feels enough for me, I’ll be there. And should she decide that she doesn’t that’s fine too, because she’s not responsible for my feelings. I’m a grown man, I’ll get over it.”

She hadn’t expected his feelings for Liv to be _that_ great.

“And I would appreciate it if you and Miles stopped trying to set us up. I don’t think that’s making her more likely to like me. Or us, I mean, if she finds out, we’re dead.”

And he said that with an unsure smile that had her remembering just who they were talking about, just who she tried to play match-maker for. And suddenly she felt really glad that Buccaneer thought the way he did.

* * *

 

Olivier knew what her best friend and her best friend’s boyfriend had tried to do. Very few things escaped her notice and your friends acting weirdly when you were around certainly being one of them. But first her broken arm, then the trouble with her family and now the upcoming finals kept her too busy to care. The only one who acted normal was Buccaneer and now that she knew that she could trust him, they talked frequently.

About two weeks after her birthday she got rid of the cast and for the first time in months Sherry and Miles too acted normally around her. She deemed it very possible that they didn’t even notice that they were acting funny. It was also very possible that they thought she wouldn’t notice. But she decided then, stuffing a pancake into her mouth, that she wouldn’t let that disturb her. Finals were coming up and everybody had enough to do already, besides, she knew that they only wanted to help. With something that she didn’t want help with, but they meant well and she simply knew in her guts that the person they wanted to “help” her with, had put a stop to it himself.

All the more reason to trust him.

“So, math at six princess?”

“Yep, we can use the group-room in the faculty library of the engineers.”

Sherry pointed her fork at her.

“From three to five you’ll quiz me?”

“No problem. Anything for you Miles?”

The man in question swallowed his current bite.

“No, I can organize my studies for the finals by myself.”

Buccaneer and Sherry mock glared at him. And of all things possible, Olivier chuckled. No sound escaped, but she knew that it was the closest to laughing she’d been in years. She was rid of the cast, was well prepared for the finals and she was surrounded by friends.

“When are you studying?”

You could trust Miles to stay on track.

“We’ve got a study group. Every Monday and Thursday after class.”

“Do you beat them up if they get something wrong?”

It was a good thing that Buccaneers tone of voice made it clear when he was joking. Still, it earned him a smack on the arm.

“Don’t act like an ass, of course I don’t beat them up. Smacking someone upside the head isn’t beating someone up.”

Three fourths of the table laughed and on the other side of the mess she saw her little brother. Tomorrow he would take his first exam on the way to state certified alchemist. He too had made friends, something she knew he had always trouble with, and she was proud how he stayed true to himself despite that. Not that she would ever say that out loud.

“Hey, earth to Liv!”

Sherry waved a piece of croissant in her face and she came to, snatching it from her friend’s grip, eagerly eating it.

“What?”

While Buccaneer was laughing and Sherry muttering about her inability to swallow first and talk later, Miles, yet again, stayed on course.

“I wanted to know if it would be alright for you to give up the room until midnight? It’s still too cold to stay somewhere outside and sitting in a bar gets pretty expensive…”

She remembered Sherry mentioning something like that and quickly rifled through her mind if there was something she had to do today there, coming up empty. She shrugged.

“Fine by me.” With a small afterthought she looked at them pointedly. “If there’s a stain on my bed, I’ll make use of my sword.”

Miles and Sherry thanked her, lowly talking on their side of the table. A hand nudged her elbow.

“In the common room of our dorm they build up a projector. They want to watch this series today, the one based on those books, you know?”

She watched him, sitting there, open-mouthed, trying to remember the name. Suddenly he snapped his fingers.”

“The song of Rice and Liar!”

“You mean The song of Ice and Fire?”

He almost pocked out her eye with his pointing finger.

“That one, exactly! Wanna come?”

She didn’t think too long about it.

“Sure, why not?”

* * *

 

The shock sat deep. He knew movies. He knew shows. But he had never seen so many people die in just one episode. Backstabbing and pushing children out of windows took place and he was pretty sure several things had been beheaded. He had looked at it alright, but he was still taken aback by the number of people in the room who had watched all of that _unflinching_.

Olivier had later explained to him that with the show being based on a book series, many probably knew what was coming. She could lend them to him if he wanted to. Also, she had looked with a twinkle in her eye every time a sword was unsheathed and he was almost sure that she would spend projector-day here regularly. Not that he minded, but he was seriously contemplating on taking her up on the offer with the books. He wanted to be prepared.

Only ten minutes ago she had left through his window and he was in the process of getting ready for bed, pulling his shirt over his head. A knock on the glass sounded, just as his head was completely hidden by the cotton. Startled he made a step forward, his head making unpleasant contact with the bedframe.

“Ah damn!”

He pulled the rest of the shirt over his head, throwing it to the side. Rubbing his head furiously he turned towards the window, fully expecting to see Miles standing there, with that shit-eating grin of his. He hadn’t expected her.

At that height the wind blew stronger and her blonde hair was whipping around her head wildly. Her arms were crossed, left eyebrow and the left corner of her mouth lifted. Amused she seemed and when she moved to knock yet again, he finally remembered how to walk. With one swift movement the window was open.

“You forgot something, Princess?”

“I’ve come to ask for asylum.”

He raised a brow at that and silently she pointed towards her dorm. His eyes flew to the window of her room and even though it was dark, he could make out a back, pressed against the glass. A _naked_ back.

“Ew.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“Did you do something?”

“I knocked. That’s when they turned off the light.”

Barking a laugh at the deadpan way she said that, he moved to the side, gesturing for her to come in.

“Should I get Alex? I’m sure we can make a roommate exchange happen for the night.”

She shook her head.

“He would never shut up long enough for me to sleep. At least he never could when we were kids. I’d simply crash in Miles bunk, if that’s alright with you?”

He had little trouble imagining Alex as the talkative type. Sometimes it seemed that he used up all the words Olivier didn’t. At her question he shrugged. He always slept better when there was someone else in the room, especially when he trusted that person.

“No problem for me. Miles’ is the top bunk.”

She nodded and got rid of her coat and boots, turning towards him just as he was pulling down his pants. He would never accuse her of staring, but he would swear by his ancestors that she treated herself to a good look of his tattooed legs. When he sensed that she was about to speak up, he beat her to it.

“I always sleep in my boxers!”

Her brows furrowed.

“No need to get so defensive. I just wanted to know if I could borrow a shirt or something?”

He knew that his cheeks were colouring a little, but nevertheless got her one of his shirts, handing it over.

She turned her back to him, starting to undress.

“Isn’t that the part where you tell me not to perv?”

“If thought that went without saying?”

“It does?”

“Don’t push it too far, I can kill you in your sleep!”

Her tone made him turn around before her words did. Thoughts of his mother’s hand smacking him over the back of his head if she found out that he invaded someone’s privacy by taking a peek, even kept him from doing something stupid. Not that the sight he was treated to when she told him that he could turn back around now was anything besides spectacular. His shirt was long and wide on her, reaching mid-thigh easily, leaving everything but a nice stretch of toned legs to the imagination. But the pink, fuzzy socks on her feet and the slightly static, tousled mane of hers, was what managed to entice him. The way she neatly folded her clothes and put them over the back of his chair, none of the usual tension left in her shoulders. The ease never leaving her, when she caught him staring.

He damned the blood rushing to his cheeks.

“They didn’t on his bed, did they?”

She had turned to look at the bunk in question, her nose wrinkling. He used the moment to compose himself, which mainly consisted of forcing his cheeks to de-redden.

“I don’t think so. Miles once gave me a bit too much information about hitting your head on the ceiling, or something along those lines.”

And a little sound escaped her then, something akin to a laugh, cut short after the first bit. Maybe it was the way that he said it, or the gruffness of his voice that, according to Sherry, turned uncomfortable things for him into hilarious lines for others. But nothing of it mattered in that moment, because with a real, full blown smile she turned to him, her voice full of humour.

“If I find a stain or it smells funny, I’ll get your bunk!”

And the pointed finger had him laughing, this deep seated feeling of happiness, of contentment, not leaving until he fell asleep. It was still there when she hit him with her pillow at three in the night, for snoring so loud that it woke her up. It even intensified in the morning, when he heard her open the door to the hall, making her way to the showers. Someone whistled, which was followed by a healthy smack and he could honestly say: Nothing made your morning like seeing Roy Mustang leaning against the wall, nose bloody, being patted on the back by his roommate.

Well, maybe the look on Sherry’s and Miles faces when she wore one of _his_ shirts to breakfast.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens... or will soon arrive. Traditions have to be upheld, games have to be won. A heart is thrown into turmoil and Cental U sees the party of its lifetime. No one yet knowing what the future has in store for them.

Tension hung thickly in the air.

They were missing just one point for a win. Just one lousy point and they would win the championship. The rows of people only had one question: Had he given his shirt to someone? Had he abhorred the age old rules of this college?

In the week before the last game someone you loved like no other had to wear the gameday-trikot for you. Not all of the time of course, but for a few hours at least. If you didn’t give it away or worse, wore it yourself, you brought misfortune and thusly a lost game, or in this case championship, upon the team and in extension to the whole college.

Superstition ran strong when it came to this tradition and so it was no wonder that everybody kept their eyes open for the tricots of the team. Karley had been a big question mark, but just yesterday someone had seen his little sister in the city, wearing the 18. Some girls were insulted, but those that knew how they had lived in foster families from a young age, couldn’t help but smile. Henschel had shown everybody who wanted to see a picture of his girlfriend, wearing the 4. He had sent it through half of the country in a package and it had arrived back on his doorstep only this morning.

Maes Hughes had very nearly paraded his girlfriend over the campus on Tuesday and when two of the team’s members simply exchanged their tricots, the coach had been dumbstruck. Except for him nobody had been surprised, though. One after another they had seen all the tricots, all the players’ numbers on someone else’s back. Only the 7 was missing. The new guy. The fullback.

The one whose shoulders were burdened with winning or losing, since their quarterback had practically been thrown over half the field.

“Livvie, honestly, if you know _anything_ , you have to tell me!”

Sherry wasn’t made for the tension that came with a sports finally. Written or oral exams, even practical ones: No problem! But watching a game she wasn’t even participating in hanging on a thread? Too much for her nerves.

“Dear sister, of all people possible you ought to know something!”

Alex stood next to Liv, who stood next to her, but she could still hear his booming voice clearly. Very clearly even, as was in high spirits because of his passed first state exam. And he too, knew the problem at hand all too well.

Bucky usually wore the number seven. And he too was quite superstitious, at least when it came to sports. Still, no one had seen even the smallest of signs of his tricot. And Sherry was sure whom he would have given it to, but was also pretty sure that she would have gotten a glimpse, should Liv have worn it. Liv, who was standing there, watching the game like Buccaneers established reputation wasn’t hanging on one last move.

“I don’t know anything! And it’s just a tricot. Stop believing in every old myth there is!”

The people that heard gasped and Sherry saw Javed looking around next to her, probably checking if someone was about to jump on the blonde. But except for muttering nothing happened and when the teams got in formation, many taking a look at the tribunes, hoping to see their loved ones, she almost hid her face in her hands. She missed the player with the number seven on his broad shoulders looking at them, missed Olivier’s nod.

A shrill whistle sounded and the people around her started to scream. Henschel threw the ball and it flew directly towards Buccaneer and for a second it looked like he wouldn’t catch it. But then the hand-egg was held in a firm grip and when the enemy’s line backers tried to stop him, his right shoulder almost sent them flying. And with a speed she wouldn’t have thought possible for a man the size and weight like him, he covered ground. One last man of the opponent’s team tried to stop him, but an outstretched hand send him tumbling to the floor. And then the ball hit the grass of the end zone and the volume turned up another notch.

She hugged everybody in her vicinity, almost deaf from all the screaming around her. Javed to her right was as elated as she only barely saw him, Liv to her left was smiling, completely, widely, unmistakable smiling.

* * *

 

The party was in full swing, so loud and wild that it very nearly shook the building. Third floor of dormitory two, the alchemists having offered up their living accommodations. Maybe forgetting that Buccaneers and his room was the gateway for all the girls currently populating the building. Not that they minded too much. Not since Armstrong had loudly offered to slice anybody up who dare meddle with their stuff.

Sherry and he had danced, taken a walk and danced again. All finals were done, for everybody, his girlfriend having finished her last one for the semester just half an hour before the big game. On Monday they would visit his mother together and after two weeks there, they would go and visit her parents. Armstrong would go spend the holidays with her family, leaving on Sunday with her brother. Buccaneer wanted to stay here, work full-time in his current job over the break. His parents were so deep in the mountains now that it was almost impossible to reach them, in time at last.

Speaking of Buccaneer, he hadn’t seen him in quite some time. He let his bespectacled gaze wander through the room, searching for a certain blonde, almost sure that he would find the big guy near her. But when he found her, standing in a corner, he wasn’t sure what to make of what he saw. She was talking, he dare say _covertly_ , to Roy Mustang. An alchemy student, seventeen and handsome, according to Sherry. The strip over his nose accenting the blooming bruise in his face, gifted to him by none other than the women he was currently talking to. Quietly talking to, too, and not fighting like they usually did. Which was awfully suspicious, because she made it clear _several_ times that she hated his guts.

And from what he gathered he disliked her too, even though he flirted with her like he did with any other female being on the campus. At least until she made him take his first alchemists exam with a swollen and beaten nose. A finger poking his side pulled him out of his thoughts.

“What are you looking at?”

Sherry’s smile was wide and she handed him another bottle of beer, following his gaze. Her eyebrow shot up.

“If I didn’t know better, I would say that I’m only a stave of the ladder for you.”

His face turned before his mind had fully registered what she said, but his facial expression seemed to show very well what he thought. Before he could retort, Sherry was laughing.

“I’m joking! I’m joking! But you should have seen your face, I think I’ve never seen you look more offended ever before!”

He unnecessarily pushed his glasses up.

“Be assured that you are not a stave, but the top of the ladder!” He looked at her pointedly, but then couldn’t help but sigh. “I’m just wondering why they are talking now, of all times possible. And Buccaneers not anywhere near either! It’s not like him to leave in the middle of the party…”

Not even remotely like him. He wasn’t drinking all too much, at least not often, and he didn’t indulge in other risky things, but the big guy loved being surrounded by happy, frisky people. Not for a thing in the world he would miss out on a party like this, especially not since he was the golden boy of the day.

Telling this Sherry, her face scrunched up in thought. After taking a sip of her beer, and grimacing, she spoke.

“Maybe that’s the problem?”

Miles felt his forehead crinkle at that.

“Let me explain! You know that it’s tradition to give your tricot to somebody before the game, right?”

“You are aware that he and I share a room and that he would not shut up about the game and what comes with it for even a second?”

Maybe it was his incredulous look or the way he said that, but Sherry was giggling into his arm. Or maybe she just was a lightweight.

“Jackass, hear me out! Point is, you got to gift the tricot to the person from before, at least when the game is won! Maybe he doesn’t want to do this when everybody’s watching? I mean, people would be gawking for sure, especially since everybody thinks… Or maybe he doesn’t want to hurt her?”

And with a not so subtle nudge of her chin towards that one corner of the room, he noticed that Armstrong wasn’t where he’d last seen her. Mustang neither, even though that didn’t help with the sinking feeling in his gut.

“You know why Armstrong and Mustang were talking?”

He felt the shrug more than he saw it, his eyes still scouring the room.

“Sometimes they do that, sometimes they scream at each other. There is some type of history between them,” And when his gaze swivelled to her then, apparently nothing but shocked, she added “but not the kind you are thinking of.”

It was a few seconds later that he got aware of people listening in on their conversation, even though he had to admit that some were doing it rather subtly. He caught the gaze of a small group of girls, and when they noticed him looking they almost jumped and hurried away. The second person listening in seemed to be Mustangs best friend: Maes Hughes. He did it way more covertly than the girls though, not directly looking at them, making conversation with somebody standing near him. But the flickering of his eyes and the weird posture told Miles enough to be sure. He was used to people being nosy when he was near, sensing that he had a secret. He knew what to look for.

Asking Sherry if she wanted to catch some fresh air, they made for the roof. Walking straight past room number 014.

* * *

 

“Is there some kind of trick to get him to put his shirt back on?”

Her brother was an idiot. She’d known this before and never doubted that very much, but now she had the ultimate proof.

“How much did he drink?”

Step one: Know what you are up against!

“What? Listen princess, we just want him to put his shirt back on!”

Leave it to Mustang to make the most ridiculous of friends. Cigarette-face received a healthy yank on his collar and her best through-the-teeth-hiss.

“No one calls me princess! And I’m asking you one more time: How much did he drink?”

The blonde boy nearly swallowed his cigarette and muttered a number, visibly shaken. She huffed. Not that she would ever say it out loud, but if her brother wanted to put up a fight, his bulk was hard to beat when sober. She had no idea what this much alcohol would do.

“You are aware that he’s technically a minor, right? What were you thinking?”

She simply couldn’t keep the ire out of her voice. As amusing as it was to see her little brother hugging some poor sob drunkenly, it was still her little brother. She was pretty sure that he never had alcohol before and being caught piss drunk and half naked by a Prof could be very bad for him and his career. And if their families name would be tainted in the process, he would beat himself up endlessly. The two young men in the room that weren’t currently hugged to death, were exchanging looks. Scared looks. Good.

“W-e…. we had just passed the exam, and… then the game. We though: Why not party? And when he drank four beers without anything happening, we thought….”

The blonde man trailed of, mumbling in his non-existing and probably never going to grow beard. Before she could grab him by the collar again, or even snub at him to speak clearly, Mustang ended his sentence.

“We wanted to see how much he could down.”

At least he was honest. Stupid, an asshole and careless, but honest. The Armstrong family was known for its member’s ability to drink large quantities of alcohol without it impairing them physically. Honestly though, wasn’t enough to quell her anger at the matter.

“You got his key for this room?”

The 014 was her brothers room and knowing Mustang well enough, she knew that her little brother’s roommate would find a bed to crash in for the night. Hastily the black haired idiot pulled something out of his pocket.

“Both, his and Johnsons.”

“Good, give them to me. And nothing happened in here, not one second of this party was spent in room number 014!”

Her voice brooked no contradiction and as mad as she was at the moment, seeing Mustang flinch the way he hid when she extended her hand, was balm for her soul. She snatched the keys and sent Mustang and his friend off with an evil look. After freeing the third young man from the vicious headlock her brother held him in, he left the room too, very nearly kissing her feet. In the floors common room Mustang had already told her that the boy had simply stood in the wrong place at the wrong time and in accordance to that, he too promised to not tell a soul.

She simply advised him to go and see a physician.

Getting her brother to calm down again after her recognized that “Ollie” was with him, was the hardest part though. After some convincing she got him to sit down on the bed and while she walked around the room, cleaning up the worst of the mess, filling the void with mindless chatter, he calmed. Happy that this trick still worked, Alex always having been a sucker for a good-night-story, she got rid of his shoes and threw a blanket over him.

The window she opened a slit, if only to get rid of the stench and then sat down at his table, easily recognizable through all the family photos sitting on top of it. A few choice sentences she wrote down and taped one of the keys to the paper. Come morning she would go and look if he was alright, even though she was already thinking of what for a fake-reason to tell Mustang, should he see her.

A look at the clock told her how long she was already gone and being mindful not to wake Alex she left the room, looking the door behind her with the second key.

* * *

 

They had cornered him when he came up the fire ladder.

Four girls, the chatty kind. He knew them by passing, but none of their full names. For about a month now though, they tended to turn up where he could see them. In a hall he had to pass, on the side of the field when he went to practice and they even asked once, when he was waiting in the mess for the others, if those seats were taken. Politely he had told them that the seats were indeed taken, just like his mother taught him, and without trouble they had left, although looking slightly crestfallen.

Back then he had asked himself why. There had been plenty of free tables that day! Now he could practically hear Sherry laugh in his mind.

“Congrats on the great game!”

“What an awesome goal!”

“To hold onto your nerves like that! Even though you had to make the winning point!”

He was caught in an onslaught of high pitched chatter, three of the four apparently having decided to simply force him into conversation. The fourth girl stood a bit to the side he noticed, looking at him sympathetically. He knew what they wanted, after all he wasn’t born yesterday. But they were looking at him expectantly now and they hadn’t asked anything yet, so he said the first thing that came to his mind.

“It’s called a touchdown.”

_Eloquent Buccaneer, keep that up!_

The girls lost some of their momentum, but held themselves admirably, changing to excusing themselves for knowing so little about this sport in a split second. If he wanted to explain them some things? There was a free room down the hall, they could get him some beer. And then he could explain everything to them, _undisturbed_.

He felt his cheeks redden.

While his voice stuttered, because _how the fuck_ do you turn someone down politely, a certain blonde hanging out of the window saved him.

“Hey big guy, your boyfriend is looking for you!”

He’d once been to the cinema with his brothers, watching some pirate film. Very well he remembered the sirens in it, for they looked beautiful when they tried to woo someone and lure them into their lair, but transformed to mean beasts when their power was disrupted. He was pretty sure something like that just happened.

Disdainfully three of the four girls turned to look at Olivier, who didn’t even seem to care about the evil eye she was receiving. The fourth girl observed the new tableau with great interest.

“Excuse me, but aren’t you seeing that he is talking with us?”

Sometimes he was surprised how fast a tone of voice could change.

“More like stuttering, wasn’t it?”

The fourth girl now snickered and he too was hard pressed to reign a laugh in. That wouldn’t have been polite. Olivier, relaxed, turned back to him.

“Henschel told me that Miles is looking for you.”

She wasn’t exactly a patient person, piercing him with a fierce gaze.

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Ok, soulmate, whatever. You coming or not?”

And without a though he would have followed now, if one of the girls didn’t get into position in front of him. She batted her eyelids, a smile curving her mouth, the venom completely having left her voice.

“Are you sure that you don’t want to come with us? I mean…”, and now the girls voice got low, even though not low enough to be overheard,” … we all know that blondie there is an icicle. I promise we’d be way more fun.”

She winked at him and he knew that his face flushed red yet again. He also knew that he didn’t like that one bit, because he felt small when this happened, patronized. He liked it as little as eye battering, or girly voices. As little as someone putting down his friends, for being who they were.

“I come from the north, we like it cold.”

And with that he squeezed past them, inwardly cursing his bulk. And as he climbed through the window, Olivier having stepped back to let him through, they both could hear one of the girls, most likely the one not hell-bend on seducing him, telling the others off.

“Told you it wouldn’t work! He’s not the kind to jeopardize everything for a fuck!”

His eyes met her icy blues and her look was one he couldn’t quite read. Uncertainty, puzzlement, hurt. No one liked being called an icicle, no one liked being speculated about. Through Sherry he knew what others said about her. Knew that she knew it too. And he couldn’t help but wonder, if she was looking at him like she did, because she couldn’t understand why he still choose to stay with her, when he could have found amusement elsewhere.

He was just about to say something, when Karley barged into the room.

“There you are! Miles is searching for you all over! He’s waiting in the common room!”

The spell broke and both of them started to move. The silence stretched on uncomfortably though, Karley making idle conversation, talking about a contest or something, while Olivier evaded his gaze. When their mutual friend slipped into the common room, he hung back. A questioning gaze met his.

“I’m sorry for what happened back there, I didn’t know what to do. They cornered me.”

Her head cocked to the side she looked at him. Up and down, scanning him thoroughly. Or at least it felt like that. With a last half-smile, she seemed to have come to a decision.

“You don’t have to apologise, I mean, technically I cockblocked you.”

And quite unexpected, for him at the very least, he was confronted with a stuttering and unsure smiling Olivier.

“I mean; it’s not like we’re together.”

And he felt a smile in his face too, the same kind she wore right now. Unsure and a bit anxious, somewhat sad even. The kind you smiled after a joke that hit too close to home, the one you smiled when you didn’t want to hurt the person you smiled it at.

“No, no we’re not.”

Desperately he hoped not to have sounded wistful. He had promised himself not to push her, to give her all the time she needed. Had promised himself to stay by her side, if she even wanted that, even if she wanted it not like _that_.

But there was something in her gaze, akin to that uncertainty he had seen just five minutes ago. And he couldn’t help himself but wonder if she even thought of herself as lovable, if she was even aware of how much she meant to others. Had joked about being together with him, probably thinking that it would make him laugh. That the mere thought of someone being with her was hilarious.

His hand found her forearm, the place were arm and wrist met. And he let his thumb brush softly over her pulse point, already thinking of how to tell her how important that spot was in his culture, how much it meant when someone touched you there. With the flicker of the lamp in front of room 009 he bent down to her level in the empty corridor. And he could see how her eyes widened, could see her pupils delating and her nostrils flaring, but for the love of all things holy, she did not pull back! And when his mouth was level with her ear, he could have whispered a great many things into it, but choose to keep it simple.

“Anybody would be lucky to have you.”

And he knew that his lips must have almost brushed her ear, wouldn’t have to reach far to brush her cheek. He did not want to push, just wanted to boost her confidence, the true one she hid behind her ice-wall. But before she could say something, before she could even turn around, the door in front of them opened. He straightened up and his hand slid away from her wrist, just to be replaced by Sherry’s who berated them for being late, slurring and loudly.

“Where the fuck have you two been?! The track-team and those rude basketball-people challenged your teams to a beer-pong tournament! They need you! If I didn’t know better you two have been around the corner, making out.”

And she stopped in the middle of her stride, having pulled them with her seemingly effortless, even though he could see that Olivier was digging her heels into the floor. Turning around, swaying slightly, she looked them up and down. Inspected her best friend’s mane and his messy ponytail, finding not a hair out of place. Huffing she turned back to the already set-up table, having pulled them in that far and mumbled under her breath.

“Not yet, I knew it! Only a matter of time, though.”

_So much for promising not to meddle with his or her love live._

* * *

 

He was befuddled at how precise a little ball could be thrown after drinking what must’ve been a months’ worth of liquor. He knew Armstrong was precise in anything she did and yes, she was god-damn scary, but to score four times in a row after just downing seven cups! The basketball-team was hard competition, everybody had expected that, but that the slight blonde could keep up, happened to shock her opponents. Underestimation yet again served her well.

He was cheering to the side with the other alchemists, persuading himself that he could drink one more shot without a problem. Hughes had talked into his ear about all of the new “information” he had gathered, all of it tittle-tattle. And when his bespectacled friend had snottily proclaimed that he could do a keg-stand, only to puke on himself after four seconds, he had promised himself to be careful with the alcohol tonight, lest he had a blackout and forget this glorious moment.

Someone turned up the music in the room and a cheer went through the crowd, while the beer-pong-table was dismantled and the next contest set up, the basketballers apparently having won this one. McDougal clapped him on the shoulder and handed him another glass.

The “cheers” leaving their lips the last thing Roy Mustang remembered of this night.

* * *

 

His voice sounded different when he sang. It also sounded different when he spoke drachman. It was only logical that it had to sound vastly different when he sung in that language.

The music had started after Karley had refused the last drink, thoroughly beaten. A tune he had immediately recognized and, as she knew him, probably asked them to play. He had started to sing to it without hesitation, everybody else in the room drunk enough to go with it without second thought. Some of his teammates lifted him up on their shoulders, aching under his weight, turning on the spot the whole time he sang. Every two seconds his head avoided the ceiling lamp by an inch.

He sang okay, well even. His voice stayed in tune and even though she couldn’t understand a word of the text, she felt that it was something meaningful and not one of the bawdy songs he usually sang. And when his voice lifted when the music died and held the last note as long as he did, she had to revaluate her opinion of his singing, it wasn’t okay, or good even. It was perfect.

And every time the turning had let him face in her direction, his eyes had locked on hers and never had she felt her heart do what it did then before. And the tingle in her right earlobe let her remember how close he’d been not even an hour ago. The way the skin of her wrist felt where he touched her, like a fresh burn.

All of this was so foreign to her. She thought of him as attractive when she first saw him, yes. Sometimes that happened. And when he had opened his mouth and proofed to be an asshole, just to show over the past year that he wasn’t as much of an asshole as he wanted her to think, she had simply been glad to have made another friend. And maybe the times when she had thought that he was attractive increased, but the times when he had proven to be kind and attentive had too, and so she had thought nothing of it. But just this night he had given up the chance to have fun with almost a handful of women, just to spend time with her, standing around in awkward silence.

She couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, he liked her for who she was and not just the way she looked or her name. And when the music ended and he walked towards her, the good humour clear to see, but also his confidence, and his eyes yet again made contact with hers, she felt her heart lurch again. And just maybe she liked the way he was and the way he looked. And maybe she had never felt this way before, at least not with her heart. Maybe she needed some time to think.

But first of all she needed another drink.

* * *

 

The last player of the track team slumped head-first on the table and Armstrong stood, swaying slightly, but stood nonetheless. Victorious the not yet passed out members of football- and swordsmanship-team cheered, even louder when the blonde proclaimed herself as the “Vodka Queen”.

He heard people scream something akin to “All hail the Vodka Queen”, and simply knew that Buccaneer was among them. He had been awfully tight-lipped when he had been asked about his absence and Miles mentally noted to dig further as soon as everybody was sober enough to think again.

And when he helped Buccaneer walk to their room, half dragging, half carrying the enormous guy, he had to think about the joys of discipline. You did not drink too much and had a clear head the next day. You could choose from everything the breakfast-buffet had to over, got to use the freshly cleaned washing machines and could still remember all the awesome stuff that went down the night before.

Havoc lighting his hair on fire with a cigarette.

Sherry calling that creep Kimblee a fuckboy, for all to hear.

Karley’s little sister barging in, grabbing her big brother by the collar and pulling him out of the room behind her, swearing like a trooper.

Hughes puking on himself.

It had its downsides though.

“Are we there yet?”

It was not even forty meters from the common room to their room and Buccaneer had already asked seven times.

Still, he counted himself lucky. Armstrong, absolutely drunk off her ass herself, was helping a green in the face Sherry. Of course he would have preferred to help his girlfriend instead of the big guy, but it had been clear that Armstrong lacked the coordination right now, no matter how strong she was.

Also, seeing as Sherry had already puked on Armstrong’s shirt a little, it would have been a waste to endanger another.

Finally: the door.

Buccaneer was conscious enough to sit on his bunk and pull at his shoes and pants, drifting off almost immediately. Having his hands free again Miles went to look for Sherry and Armstrong, who had made a curve for the restrooms eventually. Hand almost on the handle the door opened abruptly, making him jump. He caught a certainly less green Sherry and caught the eye of Armstrong, who mumbled something about washing of.

So he got the next person to his room, not even bothering with getting the girls to their building. The sun was almost rising again after all; they would get nothing but trouble. Not without difficulty he got Sherry into his bed, who was giggling inappropriately at that. Ready to set out again, also dead tired if he was honest with himself, Armstrong tiptoed into the room. Her shirt she had apparently left in the bathroom, deeming it beyond salvation. A plain, black bra covered everything that needed to be covered though and the only thing that caught a little stir in his mind was her choice of jewellery. On a long leather band, almost at her navel, hang a tooth and a key. He deemed himself too tired to wonder and simply observed the blonde as she stood on the back of her shoes, pulling them off of her feet without opening them.

A move that seemed to be possible in any condition.

For a few moments she struggled with her pants buttons and when she finally gave up, he swore she muttered “A riddle for another day!” under her breath. And before he saw where she came to rest, his eyes fell shut, the last thing he heard while wrapping himself around his girlfriend, the pained grunt of his roommate.

* * *

 

Three thoughts occupied Buccaneers mind in the morning.

  1. Why the fuck were birds so loud?
  2. Who the hell left the window open?
  3. And who was the person breathing against his neck?



He knew why birds sang. He didn’t care to remember right now, but he knew why. The window was open because somebody left it open. Not unlikely considering he had no idea how he even got into bed last night. The third question he could have answered equally as easy, by simply turning his head to the left. But if he was honest with himself, he was a little bit afraid of what, or rather who he would find. He had after all proclaimed his love in a song yesterday. Not in a language the women in question knew, but still. He tried to take stock of his clothing.

A small movement of his hips told him that he had his boxers still on. Good. A soft scrubbing sensation told him that his “partner” had some pants on too. Double good. Now came the tricky part: He was laying on his back and his left arm was stuck under the mystery-person. Moving it could touch parts that person didn’t want to be touched. But playing dead was also out of the question, at least for a prolonged period of time. The reason was simple: He needed to pee. Bad.

Two goods and one bad. Making up his mind he turned his head, still hoping behind closed eyelids that the person breathing into his neck was Miles.

He almost didn’t recognize her, with looking peaceful and all of that. Every facial-muscle was completely relaxed, no brow furrowed and not one corner of her mouth pulled down. Yes, she was drooling a little bit on his shoulder, but that could be wiped away without trouble. The way she snored was quiet and rather soft and the way her body _moulded_ against his. Aware of the deadly danger he was in, he decided to take a look.

Yesterday’s pants he had already felt and the long dawned morning illuminated the room well enough for him to see them too. One foot was still clad in a pink sock, the other bare. Interesting was everything above the waistline though. She wore no shirt. Recalling his memories from last night, he knew that she wore one before he blacked out. Maybe a drunken decision before going to sleep, by his ancestors, he had made many of those, once going to sleep with his boxers on his head. Miles never stopped going on about it.

The only thing up top she wore was a black bra and most of _that_ part of her anatomy was pressed into his side anyways. The reason was pretty simple too, after his mind finally reached working temperature. His blanket was gone. With his right he searched the floor next to the bed, coming up with the prize after some blind groping. A second reason was apparent too: The damn bed left them without enough space to, well, leave some space. Her back was clearly pressed against the wall, while his right shoulder almost hung out of the bunk.

A change in the way she breathed forced him to think quickly. He pulled his right hand, still clutching the blanket, over his chest. Hopefully she would see and take the chance to keep herself from freezing. And then he did what he had hoped wouldn’t happen: He played dead. Well, sleeping. Relaxed his body and closed his eyes, breathing evenly.

The breath against his throat stopped, the body pressed against his stiffened. He didn’t know why his heart was racing, but was sure that she had to be able to hear it. She too, tested her mobility, he could tell by the small movements she made. Something that had to be an involuntary shiver run through her and she pressed herself back against him, even if only a little. And after some time of nothing, in which he was sure she took a look around and stock of what she knew, she finally noticed the blanket. Carefully she pulled on it and he was hard pressed to keep himself from grinning, because if she found out that he was awake, boy would he get a lecture.

And a bit firmer she now pulled on the piece of cloth and he realized that he had to do something, if he ever wanted his arm to be free again. So when she set up, because he was pretty sure that laying on flesh and bone wasn’t the epitome of comfortable, he did the turning act. You pretended to grunt in your sleep and moved. Just a little, so it didn’t seem suspicious, but also at a steady pace, for the very same reason. He wasn’t sure if she bought it, because she stayed in the sitting position for what seemed like an eternity, but then she lay back down. He could feel her back brush against his, confirming that she had turned to face the wall and when she pulled up the blanket, he was almost shocked to feel that she covered him too. Because he thought that she would blame him for the position she woke up in or because she was just that cold, he didn’t know. And honestly, he didn’t care.

After her breathing evened out somewhat, he carefully got up and took care of business, closed the window when re-entering the room and was ready to crawl into bed again. And she had claimed a bit more space, like you did when someone left the bunk. But he would swear that she moved towards the wall a bit when he sat on the edge and after he positioned himself, laying on his side, his back facing hers, his heart stopped beating for a moment when he felt her back press back into his.

* * *

 

She had woken up in worse conditions. She was laying in her boyfriends bed, being softly woken with a kiss. Breakfast had already been bought and brought into the room and the first thing that found its way into her hands was a glass of water and some aspirin, handed to her by her best friend. Yes, Sherry counted herself lucky.

Waiting for the white, round wonders to act, she looked down from her perch. Bucky was searching for a pair of pants and even though she _knew_ that he was basically a mountain of muscle, a visual confirmation certainly didn’t hurt. Liv was busy pulling a shirt over her head, clearly stolen from one of the boys. Her weird tooth-necklace, wherever she had gotten that from, now also held a key and when the cold metal was pressed against her skin by the shirt, she jumped a little. Sherry chuckled quietly, receiving the stink-eye from the blonde for that.

The big guy handed Liv a brush then, apparently his spare one, because both got to work on their respective and ridiculously long hair. Taken their differing body heights into account, his had to be even a foot or two longer than hers. When Javed stepped through the door again, his hair wet from a shower and the only one who truly looked _and_ sounded awake, all four of them sat in a circle, her and Liv on the lower bunk, Miles and Buccaneer on their desk chairs.

Munching away they relived yesterday evening, Javed filling them in on everything they had forgotten. No prodding and pocking got out of Bucky what he sang about yesterday. When Olivier was told that she was crowned Vodka-Queen last night, she hid her face in her hands, only to resurface smiling, asking them to call her that forever. She herself was filled in on how McDougal had frozen the door to the third floor shut, when someone had tried to put a stop to the party. And her boyfriend recounted how getting all of them to bed had been a pain in the ass.

Yes, live could be worse.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise, the plot will arrive someday! Olivier's mother is pretty awful in this story, her father rather passive. But I got plans with them, so stay tuned. I mean, if you want to.

The days with the moving company were long and tedious, but they paid well and he could sometimes skip the workout without feeling too guilty. It also helped him pass the time, now that everybody was off visiting their family during the summer break. There wasn’t that much to do besides working, not with ninety percent of the people he considered friends being far away. He managed to go out for a drink with Karley on the weekends, but that was about it. Well, and those awful but addictive books Olivier had lent him, the ones were that series was based on. At least he would be prepared now.

But besides all of that those four weeks of the break that were over, had felt incredibly long. Miles and Sherry had written him a few letters and even Olivier had sent one, the PS from Alex being twice as long, but otherwise he heard little and was secretly glad that at least the lovebirds would be back in about ten days. Olivier and Alex too had to be back now from the family trip to Aerugo and he secretly hoped that the former would at least come over on the weekends or something like that.

Maybe they could hit up the bars in their usual manning, because that always yielded the funniest of results.

And desperately praying for a gust of wind, the heat having become almost unbearable those last few days, he went over to the window, opening it fully. Only to stop mid-movement. There was light in Sherry’s and Olivier’s room and their window was also opened as far as it went. Which should have been impossible, neither of them supposed be there. Brows furrowed he observed, seeing no one move around in the room or on their little “balcony”. Something on the roof caught his eye.

In consistent rhythm a tiny glimmer strengthened and weakened.

Olivier only smoked when she was upset.

* * *

 

His steps were heavy on the ladder.

She had wondered when he would come, had not for a second doubted that he would as soon as he saw the light. He was like that, always watching out for others. The kind you could rely on, no matter what.

“Princess?”

 

_“Olivier Mira Armstrong! That man is a prince! Do you even realize what that means?”_

_“Even more useless standing around and talking with people that are only interested in crawling up your ass?”_

_“Olivier!”, shrieking now,” Watch your mouth! It would make you a princess Olivier, a princess!”_

“Please don’t call me that anymore.”

She took another drag of her cigarette, could hear him stop for a moment, could almost hear him think. She knew that her voice sounded raspy. The last few days had been spent crying and screaming after all. That tended to take its toll on the vocal chords. She had to look horrible too, having avoided any mirror she could. Judging by the look of the evening receptionist, she should avoid them a while longer.

Steps on the gravel of the roof, then, with a sigh, the big guy sat down next to her.

“What’s got you smoking on the roof of a dorm, when you could be sliding down bannisters with your siblings?”

 

_Her mother held the shirt up like it was a bomb that could blow up any time._

_“What is this? Where did you get this from?”_

_She rung for words, knew, felt in her gut that lying would be futile. Her mother sensed it._

_“I talked with your father Olivier. He went to Central University too! He knows the traditions; he knows the players! You know how much he’s into that game!”_

_She breathed, got ready to speak, but there was no chance for her._

_“An indigene! A caribou herder! What’s gotten into you? After all the other lies you told us!”_

She gave herself some time to think, to organise her thoughts. Carefully crafted sentences in her head, eloquently worded and informing at the same time. When she opened her mouth, the words simply tumbled out.

“They made me choose: conform to their wishes, or leave.”

She couldn’t help with the way her voice sounded, her choice clear for him to see. For a moment his features derailed and the colour drained from his face.

“I’m forbidden to contact them, except for when I change my mind. I’ll receive no inheritance, no help and I’m sure there will be a lot of stones in my path from now on.”

His eyes searched her face for tears, not yet knowing that she had no more to give, completely drained. And then he did something she didn’t expect: Still pale he reached for her pack of cigarettes, chucking one out awkwardly, snatching the lighter from her fumbling fingers and lighted the little stick, coughing almost immediately.

The silence stretched on for quite some time, both looking out over the semi-dark summer Central.

“What the hell happened for them to do this?!”

The disgust in his voice was unexpected.

 

_“Mrs. Radinger told me that her son saw you fight an official sabre-duel. Explain yourself!”_

_Her mother sipped on her tea like nothing was wrong, seemingly unfazed by her own accusation. She felt her gut form a knot, felt her heart sink. For two weeks now her parents had said nothing and she had waned herself and her secrets save._

_“It’s a good compensation for dancing. Helps with the development and training of the right muscles, too.”_

_The china clattered loudly in the living room of their suite, her mother’s eyes shooting up at her, angry._

_“So you won’t admit your lies?”, silently she seemed to fume, breathing with her eyes closed. When those eyes opened again, she knew that she was doomed,” You will stay in your room until your father and I have told you otherwise. You will not talk to your siblings, nor let anyone in!”_

She told him. How they had travelled to Aerugo, everything seemingly alright. How her mother cornered her after two weeks, demanding answers. How she had apparently more than kept an eye on her, never having been happy with her decision to leave for college. That she had found out that she did never study dance for even a day. That she had no intention of staying home and getting married, with the agreed upon year now being over.

“What did she think she could do? I mean, forced marriage is illegal.”

She almost had to laugh, though it would have been a bitter one. But how would he know?

“My family is old and noble. And nobody ever raised a stink if a girl of the old and noble families is married of as soon as possible, if she wants to or not. Either a way to convince you to publicly say yes will be found, or an official willing to do it without asking you at all. Money can buy silence big guy.”

The way he looked at her she was pretty sure that she just shattered a part of his worldview. But there was no helping it. The laws helped many a women and most things went of consensual anyways, but the higher class had its own laws. Laws nobody wanted to change. Laws she hated.

“That there were problems with your parents I knew, you told me one or two things after all, as did Alex. But I wouldn’t have thought something like this to be possible, honestly. Your father knew what you studied, he must surely have been against you being married of?”

And that sigh she couldn’t stop, nor the pain that came with it. Her father had always been her save haven when she couldn’t stand her mother’s ways anymore. Had stood with her, if needed together with her grandfather. Armstrong girls were strong-willed, or so it was told and many were an exception to the rule. But when her grandfather had died, the only orientation left for her father was mother. And he loved her so much that he didn’t question her decisions. That the things concerning women, were best left to her.

“My mother made it clear to him that my indignation was nothing, but me being fickle. That I don’t know what I want. You have to understand that my father would bring down the moon for her. That he somewhat lost touch with me and my sisters when we reached a certain age. He trusts mother so much that he doesn’t question her decisions when it comes to us.”

She reached for a new cigarette, closing her eyes for a moment before lighting it.

“So they really tried it? Against your will?”

He was looking at her almost pained. She remembered the stories he told her of their traditions. How people were named before the government demanded one legal name to be chosen. How one decided what to do with their lives. How important decisions were made and what had to be done to dispute them. How in his beliefs everybody was born, and forever remained, free, by right.

How all the things she told him now, had to seem absolutely alien to him.

 

_“Believe me Miss Armstrong, when I say that I’m deeply sorry about the on-goings those last few days.”_

_Silently she sat on the low sofa, dressed up in a ridiculous gown of her mother’s choosing. The man in front of her was Prince Claudio of Aerugo, the heir to the throne. Her supposed husband-to-be. And when she read the signs right, just as averse to this marriage as she was._

_Her family had been invited to the royal court a few days ago, her mother’s face triumphant. She herself had felt sick, had been thoroughly schooled by her parents and only thinking about what to do as soon as she was back in Amestris. Had even briefly considered to try for the military again, disregarding this notion after remembering the disaster of her sixteenth birthday._

_“I do not understand what our respective parents hope to gain from making us sit in the same room, because I for my part, told them clearly that I am not content with an arranged marriage. And what I gathered from the charlady of your quarters, you are equally as averse to it.”_

_“So you always make your servants eavesdrop on your guest’s doors?”_

_“From what I was told eavesdropping wasn’t necessary.”_

_He smiled at her, in an almost conspiratorial way and she felt a flicker of hope. They both knew the rules, knew that it would land both of them in trouble, even though it could end worse for her. Still, she had to ask, had to know._

_“Prince Claudio, seeing as our families, especially our mothers, seem to be hell-bend on marrying us, even though we refuse to publicly acknowledge the others existence, I would like to ask a favour from you.”_

_Tensed he looked at her, probably readying himself for all that she could possibly ask. They had indeed exchanged a look before their parents took them by surprise with their notion of courting. Had recognised the other to be just as sly and cunning as themselves._

_“It would be a pleasure, milady.”_

_“Come afternoon, I would like you to publicly denounce the possibility of a marriage between us. Call me improper or indecent if you must, but I beg you to end this farce. Neither mine, nor your parents are listening to me.”_

_She had been almost shocked when he dropped the act and slumped down next to her on the sofa, sighing deeply._

_“You are aware that this could end badly for you? Not a-tap-on-the-fingers-badly, but the kind were you will have to renounce your claim to the family-name forever? Are you sure you want to do this?”_

_And she couldn’t bring herself to care about this then, because she tried to get out, to compromise all her life, just to end up sitting in an aerugan tearoom. The only thing keeping her from being forcibly married the man next to her, and only if he publicly renounced his “claim”. Her knuckles turned white when she balled her fists._

_“I’m sure!”_

* * *

 

He wasn’t believing what he heard, the tale so wild that it seemed almost unreal to him. This was Amestris! Yes, it was a racist and patriarchal country, but he had thought things like this to be absolutely impossible! Even the tried arranging of a marriage was forbidden where he came from, those in the community violating this right almost instantly expelled from it. None of that would help her though.

“I guess everything went even steeper downhill after he publicly denied your offered hand?”

She actually snorted at that and never had he seen her so bitter. No tears were falling, not even threatening to, and she was completely missing her subtle humour, or her fast rising ire. It seemed to him that she’d gone numb.

“Apparently I hadn’t looked as crestfallen as I should have, which with everything else made it pretty clear to everyone that the Prince and me had rigged their little upper-class-matchmaking-game. I was very nearly pulled from the ballroom. I got locked into my room and several times my mother “visited” me, demanding to know what was wrong with me.”

And she paused for a small while there, taking time with lightening her third cigarette since they started talking, while he got rid of his first. And it almost comforted him when she talked on with a little more strain in her voice, reassuring him of her heart still beating.

“She called me… all kinds of things. That I am a bad influence to my siblings. That with what I’ve done I’ve tarnished the family name forever. How I just made it impossible for her to find a man that would take me. Like I hadn’t made it clear that I didn’t want her to!”

Her icy blues went softer then, a touch of melancholy hanging in the air.

“After some time Dad came in. He talked quietly with me, he was actually very… sweet. That we would find a solution that works for everybody. How we would travel back home now and then think about what to do.”

The truth of her sitting here, right next to him, was proof of how that had to have failed.

 

_“Did you even, for only a second, think about what your selfish decisions would mean for your family? How are your sisters supposed to find decent husbands now? News travel fast and no mother would want a difficult woman for her son! They will think them to be like you, head full of silly ideas!”_

_She took it silently. Not that she hadn’t stood up against it. Three days were spent screaming at each other, her father standing between them, wringing his hands. Her siblings were sternly told to go to their rooms, her youngest sister even being brought to their aunt, after she collapsed from all the stress. Not one second she had stopped fighting. But with her voice hoarse now, there wasn’t much that she could do._

_“When you tried that nonsense with the military at sixteen, I should have known that something was going the wrong way. But I thought that you just wanted some kind of adventure, you always were your father’s child after all, and when you proposed the boarding school, I even thought: Why not?”_

_Angry looks, stern stares, she felt that nothing worked on her anymore. She let her mother rage, hoping that she would come to a conclusion this time, instead of starting the same lecture tomorrow. Hoped that the whole thing would not again tried to be resolved by the proposal of some young man of the Central upper middle-class, talked into asking for her hand by her mother._

_“You had good grades, even though I still don’t understand what that algebra would help you with later in life. And you made a friend, even a female one! I have to admit I was almost shocked, because you never got along with any. I have always tried my best to introduce you to the nicest and most well behaved young ladies I could, but you always managed to offend them in some way.”_

_The thing saving her from those men, was her father putting his foot down in the matter. No daughter of his should be married against her explicit will. Which was nice of him to say, but did not do anything to resolve the issue at hand. She did not want to marry, not now, and less with each suitor knocking on their door. She wanted to return to college, to study more, to learn and live, far away from prying eyes. She wanted to be free of their expectations._

_“Of course this Sherry was rather ordinary, I might say bland, but she seemed to have a good influence on you and I even went as far as defending her when some of the ladies of the rotary-club inquired about the matter. When you proposed that year in college though, I should have known that you were trying to stir up trouble again. Only your father talked me into it, telling me how you were maybe not ready yet. Not ready. When I was your age, I was already pregnant with you!”_

_She stopped listening. Maybe an arranged marriage did work out for some people, her parents had after all, but she saw in the faces of the women at mother’s tea parties, that this was an exception. And while her mother drowned on about her supposed wrong-doings in college, how no proper woman drank alcohol, fought with a sword and studied a subject were you could get dirty. That no proper woman turned to a man from such a low family, even though she hadn’t. She came to a decision._

“When the maid came into my room, I dashed out. No one stopped me, but in the entrance hall stood mother. When I walked past her, she told me that if I stepped through this door now, I wouldn’t be an Armstrong anymore.”

He was sure that she left something out. That there were things she wasn’t telling him, but if she decided that it was none of his business, it was none of his business. And maybe it hurt too much to talk about it, because even though she seemed numb to him, he knew that she still felt. When she ended her tale, he decided to focus on the future.

“What are you gonna do now?”

He was met with a shrug and slightly furrowed brows. She had left the house only hours ago, not all the implications of leaving possibly thought through yet.

“I have to up my work-hours. Maybe get a second job for the afternoon. Camilla’s flower shop closes at six and with classes I can never get enough hours to earn the tuition.”

Ever since she was back in Central City she had worked in a flower shop. When Sherry first talked about it after Olivier hadn’t turned up for lunch, working one of her colleagues shifts, he had almost laughed. Not that it was especially funny, but the mental picture of Armstrong, violently cutting up a bunch of flowers, sour face and all, had been hilarious then. The shop belonged to one of the former maids of the Armstrong family that apparently knew Olivier since she was a little mite. And as the rich ladies never bought their flowers themselves, but had people who got them, it had been a safe place for the blonde to work at. The footboys could keep a secret, one thing he learned about the higher class that he’d never have suspected. But even though he knew the shop, knew the business was going well, he doubted that they could pay her enough.

“Could keep my ears open if you like, the old Menken surely knows one or two people who could use a helping hand. He’s been in Central for decades.”

Maybe it was a trick of the light, but even though her icy mask held, he could swear that her eyes softened just a teeny bit. Her voice was usually a good giveaway, but she was still sounding hoarse.

“Thank you, that’d be nice.”

The silence that stretched on then, was in no way uncomfortable, but still broken by the growling of a stomach.

“Have you eaten yet?”

“I’m not really hungry, big guy.”

“Bullshit!”

* * *

 

The first few days were a haze. The happenings of the last few weeks still in the forefront of her mind, she was glad for the distraction that working was. From 10am to 6pm at the flower shop, Camilla having given her as many shifts as she wanted and a small pay raise, as soon as she heard what had happened. After that she had an hour to change, wash up and get to her second job in an upper class restaurant. Buccaneers boss knew the chef there, who was apparently always in need of helping hands in the kitchen. After a week of cutting vegetables and fruits into all possible shapes, the sous-chef showed her how he wanted the meat cut. A few days of that and she left the establishment late at night, after helping with cleaning the kitchen, her backpack full of leftovers. Mondays she wouldn’t have to work at Camilla’s, Wednesdays not in the restaurant. She could arrange that with her classes when the semester started again, even though her time for studying would be cut. Well, Sunday was still completely free. But the money she made was enough to learn and live on and the free food almost every night, shared first only with Buccaneer, later with the returned lovebirds too, added a new social aspect to it, as she usually missed lunch and supper with them.

Still, she knew that she had grown more quiet. Never had she been especially outgoing, but with the little time left to herself and all the thoughts keeping her up at night, it was even harder to keep in touch with everything that was going on around her. She couldn’t help but wonder how much harder that would become, once the new semester started again. It was a common misconception that she didn’t care about the people around her and even though she knew that her friends knew better, she hoped that she could be able to show them. The worst thing though, was how she missed her siblings.

She hadn’t been able to explain anything to them, hadn’t been able to say goodbye. Alex would begin his tutor-year now, which meant that he would not return to the campus for some time and even though she saw her families’ footboy at work almost every day, she had no idea if she could trust him with a message or a letter. If the wrong person found out, the poor lad would never find a job again. She felt deprived of them, missed Amue’s way of sneaking into her room at night, to tell her of all the secret plans she hatched, right under their mother’s nose. Missed Strongine’s determination to clothe her properly, her passion for needle and threat. Missed how she would talk about this passion, her eyes gleaming. Missed Alex too, even though he was a stupid cry-baby and a show-off, flexing his muscles every chance he got. He was her stupid cry-baby.

Worst of all she missed Catherine though. Her youngest sister was barely eleven years old, had understood nothing that happened around her. She did not yet really know what marriage meant, only knew that she wanted to be with her big sister, who was home too rarely for her liking anyway. Catherine, who coerced her into playing with puppets. Her big show of reluctance only made the girl giggle. Catherine, who was shy when people she didn’t know came to visit, often hiding in one of her sister’s rooms then. Catherine, who wanted nothing more than to become an alchemist one day, not yet knowing that mother would never let her. Catherine, who had cried tears of happiness every time she came home and tears of despair every time she left.

Head heavy with those thoughts, she stepped through the door to Sherry’s and her room, ready to take a shower. Wednesday, she wouldn’t have to go out again, but the potting compost under her nails was disgusting anyways. Strangely the room was empty, with Miles and Sherry back their room usually occupied by their small group. She did not think about it too long though and went to take a shower. Coming back, hair still wet, Sherry and Miles were still not there, instead a hulking young man. A nodded greeting.

“What’s the matter, big guy?”

He was not the type to turn up without a reason, not at this time of day. She was sure that he knew her daily schedule by heart. She, in fact, knew his.

“Sherry told me to tell you that she and Miles are on a date and that you should not wait for her, because they’re coming back tomorrow.”

She nodded, towelling her hair “, anything else?”

When he smiled _that_ smile, she knew something was in the bush. Her eyes narrowed of their own accord.

“I want to show you something in my room.”

For a second she thought about brushing him off. Her day had been long and you never knew what he was up to. But then she remembered that he had done nothing but help her, supported her with everything live was throwing at her right now. Never wanting anything in return. She decided to trust. Still she looked at him through slit eyes, simply to keep him on his toes.

“This better be good.”

Down the ladder, up the ladder, barely able to hide a certain amusement at the big man’s bulk, squeezing himself through tiny spaces. When they reached his floor, he stood in front of the window, blocking her view.

“What is it that you wanted me to see?”

Wordlessly he stepped to the side.

Standing in the middle of the room was her brother. And sitting on Buccaneers bunk, was none other than her youngest sister.

Her heart threatened to burst.

* * *

 

“I talked Augustus into giving me the key. I mean, Grandpa willed you the sword! It’s yours, they had absolutely no right to take it from you!”

Her youngest sister was feistier than her outward appearance let on. Sure, she looked almost like a carbon copy of her sister, the only vastly different thing their eye-colour, and of course the age difference, but still. When she had entered the room with her brother, she had seemed shy, intimidated even. She was only eleven after all. But the façade melted away fast enough, as soon as Olivier entered the room.

“She locked it away with a bunch of other stuff she took from you. Sketchpads of yours, clothes, books, even some jewellery! I got it all to my room piece for piece. I even went into Mom`s boudoir to find this tricot she`s always going on about. It’s in the bag, with everything else!”

Olivier’s eyebrows almost met her hairline, listening to her little sisters daring tale. Her shirt was still wet where Catherine had cried into it upon seeing her sister again. He had left, had wanted to give the siblings some space after everything that had happened. On the fire ladder, window closed, he had patted himself on the back for thinking up this little plan. She had seemed so numb, constantly lost in thought and the returned Sherry had worriedly told him how Olivier tossed and turned in bed before falling asleep. What happened must have hurt, yes, but the lost contact with her siblings hurt her even more, all three of them had been sure of it. He had decided to act.

After some persuading, the receptionist of their dorm had given in and had called the Armstrong Mansion, because of some things Alex supposedly forgot to take home with him. That the “things” looked like alchemistic research, which he would surely need, now that it was his practical year with his teacher, right? That it was so much that Alex would surely need helping hands. The Head-Butler Augustus, known to be a prudent man, promised to send the young man over as soon as possible.

When Alex opened the window again, he knew that he was now welcome to join in on the conversation.

“Catherine! What do you think would have happened if you were caught? Please, don’t ever try something like this again! I’m really thankful that you brought my stuff back, I really am, but please, don’t make mother mad at you too!”

Seeing her as the big, caring sister was a mixture of heart-warming and weird. It was wonderful to see her like that, her little sister hugged tight, head tucked well away under her chin. But the faces she made and the tone of voice she used, was so at odds with her character. It didn’t look wrong, not at all, but he wasn’t used to it. She wore the cold mask of impassivity most of the time and it rarely slipped.

“I thought mom would calm down after a few days, but she’s still seething. When you were gone I tried to tell her that you’ve of course done nothing stupid. She then berated me for not noticing that you were studying something entirely different than promised. She is not willing to understand that we all knew about it. Also, I’m apparently a terrible brother for letting you talk to men unsupervised.”

The voice of her brother was deepening still, puberty not over yet. His words though, worried him. They had talked of a tricot, but he hadn’t thought anything of it. She owned a few and maybe they had meant one of them? But then, why would Alex talk about doing something stupid? And why was talking to men suddenly important?

Realisation hit him like an avalanche. He was stupid!

“Don’t beat yourself up about it, it was to be expected. And well, we’ve been over the old-fashioned ways a few times, so…”, why talking she looked around the room and probably saw his face go through multiple emotions. He tried to compose himself, but her interest was already picked,” … you frying a brain-cell over there?”

“No, no, everything’s fine.”

He saw that she didn’t believe him, but apparently she wouldn’t pester him right away. The time with her siblings here was limited after all.

“Dad’s pretty sad since you been gone. Amue and Strongine are staying with him, trying to cheer him up a bit, but I don’t think it’ll work. He’s just not talking much anymore.”

There was genuine concern in Catherine’s voice when she spoke and he instantly saw it bloom on Olivier’s face, too.

“Four people for some Alchemy notes would have been pretty obvious too, even though mom seems to think that you’re somewhere in the north. I don’t know why she would think that, but for some time now few things she says make sense to me anymore, so.”

The little blond shrugging in her sister’s arms was a good distraction, while his face showed a complete palette of colours yet again. While he tried to look normal, Alex looking at him suspiciously, Catherine went from sad to feisty again.

“You should’ve seen Auntie Georgina! She visited last week, after having heard of everything. The door was held open for her and without a word she went up to Mom and slapped her! I was sent to my room immediately, but Amue and Strongine sneaked in my room in the afternoon and told me everything. They had a huge fight and Dad and Uncle Johnathan had to separate them! Before they left, Auntie Georgina even told Mom that she would take the matter up to Grandma, should she do the same with one of us.”

It was rare to see three Armstrong’s shiver in fear at the same time. His gaze must have been full of unanswered questions, because Alex spoke up.

“Grandma Philippa is our mother’s and Aunt Georgina’s mother. Family is everything to her and even though she arranged marriages for her daughter’s, she never forced them to go through with it if they didn’t like the man. Mom and Dad were love at first sight, but Auntie Georgina for example refused seven men before she agreed to marry our uncle. She’s strict and has quite a temper. As soon as she hears what mother did, there will be hell to pay.”

He nodded, the part with the temper apparently running in the family. With an ear on the conversation, while mulling thoughts over in his head, time flew by. When the clock on the table chimed, he said his goodbyes and again stepped outside, trying to give the siblings as much privacy as he could.

He caused her a lot of trouble. A lot of pain. He thought of things he could say, things he maybe should have done differently. It hadn’t been right to give her his tricot when she slept in his room the Wednesday before the game. He should have asked her about it. But he had been too afraid then, hadn’t wanted to risk their friendship for something that maybe only was in his head. When the game was won he had promised himself to be honest now, to give her the tricot in a quiet moment. And again he hadn’t dared to, had felt the eyes following him. If anybody saw, she would feel pressured. Even if it was only him she would surely feel pressured. So he had escaped the party for a moment, had scaled the ladder opposite of his and deposited the shirt, neatly folded, under her pillow. He had half expected her to throw it into his face as soon as she found it. He had not expected to see its sleeve peeking out of a bag, held by her little sister.

The noise of the window opening pulled him out of his thoughts. The space the fire-ladder offered was small, but she still squeezed herself next to him. Silently they stood, the warm summer air not giving them any reason to hurry back inside.

“That was your idea?”

She almost sounded wistful and when he turned he wasn’t prepared for blue eyes full of melancholy and an almost sad smirk pulling at her mouth.

“I hope I didn’t step over the line with it...?” He trailed of, letting his uncertainty shine through.

“Don’t worry, it was perfect.”

For a long time, they just stood there, the breeze warming their skin, the fading light making it gradually easier to speak.

“I got you into a lot of trouble with that tricot, didn’t I?”

The street lights started to glimmer, the not so far away lights of nightly Central going on one after another.

“I would have gotten into trouble anyways. I tend to. So don’t beat yourself up about it.”

She looked so sincerely at him then, so openly, he almost wanted to believe her. Still, the feeling of guilt gnawed at him, constricting his throat, forcing words to stay unsaid. She took his silence as an invitation.

“They hid the necklace you got me for my birthday, so well that even Cathy couldn’t find it. I usually fiddle with it and am missing it already. And I’m very sorry for losing it, believe me, I liked it very much.”

He had watched those last few weeks, how her hand always seemed to grab her shirt right where her heart was supposed to be. He knew that she wore the necklace, had been questioned by Miles about it, had seen it at the last big party, while she was pulling a shirt over her head. Heard how her voice sounded just now, apologetically, unsure, sad and strong. Noticed that she had maybe, just maybe, told him in her very own way that she not only liked his gift.

He decided to lighten up the mood.

“I can get you another one. I’ll just take the next train north, ride on a sleigh for a few days, participate in the hunting rituals, kill another bear, say prayers over his carcass and engrave the tooth in great detail.”

Her sword was in reach, the bag containing it not even a metre behind her. It was a good thing that his mouth made it almost impossible to hide it when he was joking.

“So I`ll get it next week?”

The raised brow and fierce gaze almost made him take her seriously.

“Make that two, first I’ll have to find a bear that fits you.”

And there was an honest to god smile stretching her mouth then, full lips forming a curvy line, lightening up her face. She collected her bag and got ready to climb down the ladder, probably to get some well-deserved sleep.

He wasn’t ready for when she turned once more, softly taking hold of his wrist. Her thumb surely accidentally brushing over his pulse-point, softly tugging to make him bend down a bit. He wasn’t ready for the softness in her gaze when she looked into his eyes, of the gentle way her voice suddenly sounded.

“Thank you!”

He wasn’t ready for her to be gone in a flash.


	7. Chapter 7

Once the new semester started, the group of friends got used to the new rhythm fast.

They would have breakfast together, like they almost always had, the campus-mess an unbeatably cheap way to get your stomach full. After that they would head of to class or work, in some cases one after the other, until they met again for lunch, usually minus Olivier. In the afternoon it was more work, or some more classes, study-group on Thursdays in Sherry’s case. Dinner was Mondays spent without Buccaneer, Tuesdays without Miles and except for Wednesdays and Sundays, never with Olivier. The new thing was the midnight snack.

Leftovers from the restaurant Olivier worked at, divided between her and another young man from work, for usually being the ones cleaning up the kitchen. In the dead of night the four of them sat together in one of the rooms, or the roof if the weather let them, enjoying the delicious food. Talking about their day, their plans and sometimes about the future. They even talked about their worries, rarely, but they did.

Miles, minus his glasses if it was only them, struggling with his heritage, with the question what others will think about it. How they would react if he revealed it, if he was able to change the perception of Ishvalans. Buccaneer, to whom it was totally clear that his football-career was not only the product of hard work, but of a lot of luck, fearing what would happen if it left him. Aware that with his heritage, being useful to the team was the only option to stay at Central U, no matter what else he was good at. Sherry, who, even though her field was made up of women by half, faced misogyny and harassment at the practical shifts at the local hospital, some of the old Doctors sure that a women was good for nothing more than a nurse. Olivier, who struggled with earning enough money for tuition and living accommodations, jobs and studying leaving her almost no time to herself. Almost completely cut off from her family, the time with her friends cut short, unwilling to voice her worries aloud, not wanting to burden anybody.

It weren’t the kind of problems you could easily help the other with. Kind words made them easier to bear, but that did not solve anything. It were the kind of problems you had to find the answer to all by yourself, kind words and encouraging smiles the only crutch that could be offered to you.

But mostly, College live progressed. Miles and Sherry were still a steadfast pair and even though they fought from time to time, they worked equally hard on making up. Wednesday had been declared date night by them, usually held in Sherry’s and Olivier’s room, while the latter migrated to the boy’s dorm, projector night being a welcome distraction from the daily stress. Not without a gleam in her eyes Sherry learned that her best friend never carpered one of the empty rooms, plenty free with the alchemists now being in their practical year, but instead choose to stay in the room with Buccaneer, sleeping in Miles bunk.

Miles had observed that the two somewhat synced, often doing things without talking. Sometimes they didn’t even exchange a look before getting up and going somewhere, either their routines or their silent communication so perfected that he couldn’t help but wonder. One night Sherry had forced him to go over and look with her, neither of the them sure that still nothing was going on between those two. Seeing them sleeping peacefully in their respective bunks, they had even looked somewhat crestfallen at each other. Only when the ladder groaned and blue eyes saw them, they started to flee. Not that outrunning them at night had helped them anything in the morning.

Buccaneer had noticed that despite how stressed out everybody could rightfully have been; they were a pretty happy group. They laughed more, were at ease with each other and tried to help the others to the best of their ability. Miles and him had taken to quizzing the other, Olivier still pounded math into his head. All of them studied with Sherry when they had the time, medical jargon soon no problem for any of them. He was pretty sure that he even somehow had helped Olivier, after he talked about some problem the North City snow plow’s had and how they solved that particular problem at home. Her eyes had widened and she had muttered something about caterpillars, almost jumping towards her sketchpad.

He also noticed that she sat closer to him at projector night. That her eyes laughed when he jumped during the show, an ease creeping into her that interested him greatly. That she always forgot something to sleep in, even though she brought her own pillow and clothes for the next morning. That some of the shirts he lends her vanished without a trace. That she sometimes talked in her sleep, which never sounded calm or relaxed, but distressed. That when he woke her, tall enough to look into her bunk without a stool or anything, she’s never angry, but simply startled. That there were sometimes those quiet moments, when they did something in-sync without even noticing, just to end up face to face. That there was this little slip of hesitation then, which sooner or later broke the spell, but still left him with a warm, fuzzy feeling.

Olivier noticed some things, too. That, even though work and college at the same time were stressful, having everything in your own hands was rewarding. That the best ideas sometimes came from the most unexpected sources. That giving up your room to two of your friends wasn’t just good for them. That being cared for wasn’t all awful. That shirts from ludicrous sized men should be sold to women, being a thousand times more comfortable then any lacy night-shirt ever could be. That letting your guard down, even if only sometimes, could make your heart throb. In the good way.

That Buccaneer snored.

And that it was hard to sleep when he didn’t.

* * *

 

Three day’s in a row, two shifts a day. The Chef had warned her that Christmas was hard business. But now, with the last oven clean like on the day it was delivered, she found that even though she was dead-tired, she felt pretty happy too. The work was hard, but it paid well and when she just thought about the food in the Styrofoam-boxes waiting on the counter, her stomach growled and mouth watered. The hectic in the kitchen had taken the edge off the last three days and even though she still heart-wrenchingly missed her family, she managed. Sleeping like the dead helped too.

Sherry and Miles were on the grand-tour again, trying to visit as many relatives as possible over the holydays. For a short moment she wondered if Sherry had already puked, like she always did when she ate to much different foods. Buccaneer had taken the train to North City, meeting up with his brothers there. He should have come back today, but with the weather up there it was always hard to tell if the trains even took off.

She slipped into her coat, complete with gloves, shawl and woolly hat, Central City again being freezing cold, without a flake of snow in sight. The boxes found their place in her backpack and with the calm of somebody who had done it a hundred times already, she turned off the light and left through the back door. The key turned with some trouble, like it always did, and deliberately she rattled the door again, just so she could be sure that she closed it properly. Making her way through the roofed passage, getting ready to be blown off of her feet by the merciless winter wind, she was greeted with an unusual sight.

The street in front of her was covered in snow, at least two feet high. Giddiness bloomed inside of her. The man standing on it, grinning, had a little mountain of snow on his head too, seemingly not bothered by it in the slightest. Somehow, her giddiness increased upon seeing that. He raised a gloved hand in greeting.

“Where the fuck did you get the sleigh from?”

“Stopped by a dangerous looking guy in the dead of night and that’s your first priority? Where I got the sleigh from?”

* * *

 

She had refused to sit on the sleigh while he pulled it, claiming that he would try to steer her into a snow bank. So they were walking next to each other, the wooden sleigh slithering behind them like a lost dog. He was sure that she was making a conscious effort not to skip out of happiness.

“So you just decided that after a day spent traveling, you had to go sleighing with me?”

He knew her well enough to tell that she tried to sound cross with him. Not that he hadn’t expected that, snarkyness was a way of life for her, but apparently snow made her s _o_ happy that she could hardly hide it. And he had thought _he_ loved snow.

“I’m not tired yet.”

He truly wasn’t. He had bought the sleigh in North City, for just a quarter of the cenz it would cost here in Central. He knew how weather worked and even though the forecast had denied any snow falling in this City, the stuff crunching beneath their feet was proof enough. The only thing he knew, was that Olivier had never sleighed before. And he planned to change that.

“Knowing you, the last three days were spent in North Cities bars. Did you at least catch up with your brothers?”

“They already waited for me when I arrived, it was very nice. Showed them the group photo of us, where we`re all in that bar. Now both of them want your number. And what do you think of me? That I’m constantly drunk?”

An outsider would surely think that their conversation was serious, but he had soon understood that the blondes humour was of the deadpan kind. Mock-telling the other off had become their little way of joking conversations.

“I think you`re a party animal.” She stated it like a text-book fact

“That’s rich, coming from the vodka queen…”, he trailed of, looking at her with raised eyebrows.

Even though he looked at her, he was to slow to brace himself against her powerful shove. Snow flurried around him in little puffs when he landed and her smug grin told him that it had looked as ridiculous as he thought. “Dusting” himself off he got up again, grumbling lowly.

“What was that for?”

His dark look was met by a smile and a raised, regal eyebrow, “You got too cheeky for my liking!” She regarded him with narrowed eyes for a moment, before she added,” and you’ve better not given those brothers of yours my number or address. If their anything like you I’ll have nothing but trouble for the rest of my live!”

For a few, long moments he looked at her, before his laughter found its way. They slowly got moving again, lapsing into a pleasant silence. Until they crossed a certain bridge that was.

“Buccaneer, where are we going?”

“You told me that you could only remember it snowing once in Central, when you were a child. And that, even though you did learn about the noble sport of snowball-fighting, you never went sleighing. So I thought I would take you.”

“In the dead of night?”

He could _feel_ her eyes burrow into him.

“Well, I know that you have a few days of now,” he couldn’t deny a hint of nervousness creeping into him. He couldn’t very well tell her that he longed for the moments they were alone. And you could never tell when the lovebirds would be back. Good thing that he knew plenty flimsy excuses,” and with the weather at the moment it could be gone tomorrow.”

The tilt of her chin told him that she wasn’t convinced, but seemingly she decided to let the matter rest. Which gave him the chance to address another, and possibly disastrous, topic.

“Not to ruin your mood, but was there any word from your family?”

It wasn’t the best of topics, he knew that. But over the last few months he had understood that it helped her cope when she talked about it, no matter how much it hurt. And it _had_ gotten better for her. Yes, it was awful and horrible what had happened and she had been emotionally drained in the direct wake of it. But over time she had established ways to exchange letters with her siblings, right under their mother’s nose. Had been free to make her own decisions and lead her life like she wanted. Gradually that pressure that always had seemed to keep her from being openly happy, receded.

“They`re in the south, family reunion, but in the last letter they had already promised one for Christmas, so I think it’ll just take some more time. And mine shouldn’t have reached them yet either, so I guess we`re somewhat even.” She shrugged a bit, not looking particularly happy,” I mean, I’m not sad to miss Aunt Margery and her everlasting nagging, but still…”

“It sucks?”

A puff of cold air and a sad half-smile, then another deep intake of breath.

“Sounds about right.”

He stopped dead in his tracks then, not only because he wanted to cheer her up, but also because they’d reached their destination. He spread his arms, grinning.

“By the way, we`re there.”

He kept on grinning, while she took a suspicious look around. The lights of the city were still easy to see in the distance, but before them only lay lonely, untouched snow, slightly curving downwards, one or two trees on the slope, looking meek. Even though she didn’t seem convinced, he kept on being cheery.

“Isn’t it great?”

“It’s pretty damn far of the grid. You sure it’s safe?”

His arms sunk, maybe he even looked a little offended. This was snow! He knew snow! He hadn’t seen a world without snow until he was ten years old! Her snort told him that the insult had indeed shown on his face, something that never ceased to amuse her. She punched him on the shoulder, almost having to stand on her tip-toes to reach it.

“I was kidding!” She _was_ smiling, his spirits lifting rapidly with the corners of her mouth,” And now show me, what do I have to do?”

He took her backpack, neither of them worrying about the food inside as it was colder than any freezer could be, and hung it on a strong branch of a tree so as not to get it wet. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw that Olivier was eyeing the sleigh sceptically, surely examining its structure for its ability to safely hold one of them. Good thing that he had other plans.

“You sit in the front; I’ll take the back.”

“Why can’t I try it alone?” Independence and a total lack of fear were a dangerous combination and her raised brow challenged him to defy her,” It can’t be that difficult?!”

“It isn’t,” The trick was to tempt her,” but the heavier it is, the faster it goes…”

She was faster sitting on the sleigh, waiting for him, than he could blink. Speed was a weakness of hers. Carefully he sat down behind her, explaining to her where to put what.

“Your feet on the inner side of the frame on each side, yeah, just like that,” It was not a lot of place they were left with and he really wasn’t a lightweight, but the sleigh he bought was sturdy and held them both,” take the string with both hands. It can help you with steering, but only a little. The most you can do by shifting your weight.”

“Your weight rather, don’t you think?”, good thing he by now new when she was joking,” can we start now?”

Chuckling at her impatience he pushed themselves towards the slope with his feet and soon they were taking on speed. The world speed past as a mixture of snow and darkness, the sounds around them being their own screams or the howling of the wind, Buccaneer at least not being able to tell. Squinting his eyes against the cold wind, he did see the tree too late. They only grazed it, that much he could tell, but the short fly through the air and the thumbs of their bodies hitting the snow seemed incredibly loud to him. The world spun and nothing hurt, but still he scrambled to his feet.

Sunken in the snow lay Olivier, the white stuff following her outline like a perfectly shaped hole. Her icy blues were open wide, her mouth drawing in breath in large gulps. Her limps were shaking, cheeks red. He wasn’t ready for the sound that reached his ears, clear like bells, nor for the skip of his heart.

Snow all over her, hair falling freely after her hat flew off, Olivier was laughing to her hearts content.

* * *

 

He never picked up people on this station at this time. It was five in the morning after all and he was the first to leave from the depo. The between-holidays-shift too. In this weather none the least, which was for the first few miles a challenge of its own. It was the first station and pretty far out and he’d almost driven past the two people, who had a sleigh with them of all things. It had only started to snow half a day before!

They had shown him their student identity cards, paid their tickets and sat down next to each other. Only a backpack and that damned sleigh with them.

The guy was huge, packed in a thick coat that made him look even buffer than he seemed to be and for a second he had feared a robbery. But right behind him had been the slight blonde, her face seemingly frozen into a constant smile, which reminded him of his wife when she had one of her laughing fits. That had relaxed him again and he only told them that the drive to the campus would take a while in this weather. They had nodded and taken the seats in the middle, so that the sleigh wouldn’t take up the aisle.

He usually didn’t listen in, but in an empty bus it was hard to overhear and so he learned that their backpack was full of food they planned to heat up in the floor-kitchen, which he supposed was a dormitory thing. Talked some about work and classes and about their plans for the next few days. After the quarter of an hour there had been silence.

He had looked into the rear-view mirror then, just to make sure everything was okay. The blondes head lay on the big guy’s shoulder, dozing or sleeping, he couldn’t tell. But over the time it took to reach their station, driving through half Central, he several times saw the man look at her tenderly. Heard him softly wake her a station before theirs. And before he drove off after letting them out, telling himself that he was making sure that they had taken all of their things with them, he gazed after them, as they were walking towards the campus.

Behind them trailed the sleigh, the backpack in his left hand. His right arm encircled the blonde’s shoulders and it looked to him like she was laughing.

He could hardly wait to return home himself then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm awfully sorry for updating a week late, but life hit and will continue too, with my finals nearing. So don't fret if I won't update during April, I've not abandoned the story, I simply don't know yet if I'll have the time to write. Thanks for all the kudos and if anythings the issue, don't hesitate to hit me up :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot has (finally) landed!

It wasn’t unusual that Olivier woke her up. She did get up earlier than her, going for a run in the morning and waking her right after. Now it wasn’t Olivier’s nature to be especially gentle, exceptions only proving that rule, and so being woken up by her could range from a soft nudge of a hand, to a ten litre bucket of water tipped over your head. Which taught Sherry pretty fast that she should learn to get up on her own.

But this morning was different, Olivier not only nudging her awake softly, but sounding thoroughly alarmed while saying her name, too. The contradiction was what rapidly woke her up, everything getting even weirder when her roommate went to sit on her bunk, while she herself still wasn’t even sitting in it yet. A newspaper was shoved into her hands, a certain side already opened up for her to read.

“War in Ishval…”, and her interest was struck rapidly then, turning from sleepy to alarmed, too,” starts anew. Renewed upheaval directly concentrated towards Centrals regional command centre, has led to fights breaking out again. Soldiers have reported that Ishvalan extremists, heavily armed, have repeatedly broken the armistice, thusly leading to a renewal of the conflict. The Fuhrer has issued… God Liv! That’s just horrible!”

She couldn’t read on yet, was to shocked to even move. The conflict in Ishval had been horrible, a strain for the whole country and even though the government acted like they ended it of their own accord, everybody knew that the public pressure had a lot to do with it. An armistice had been negotiated and the military presence in the region reinforced. The troubles had not ended though and if armed Ishvalans had attacked the military base, the government would start campaigning again. And soon.

“They write that the Fuhrer issued the troops to move out and to help with the conflict an impressment of able bodied or specially qualified citizens will start soon. It seems like they want to throw everything at them that they have, no matter if it’s useful or not. And how do the Ishvalans suddenly have weapons?” Olivier was not looking at her, but at the wall, forehead crinkled in thought,” Half of it doesn’t make sense! And the other half is bullshit!”

And only now her friend looked at her, truly looked, and the severity of the situation hit her. When they wanted to send more troops in, even wanted to start an impressment, against only a rather small number of armed Ishvalans, they planned little more than annihilation. And if they planned to annihilate the Ishvalans in their homeland, then they surely…

“Liv, what about Javed?!”

* * *

 

The girls knocking on their window first thing on Sunday morning had woken them up. Groggily he had climbed down from his bed and opened the window, wondering what they could possibly want at this time of day. The sun had not even risen fully, with it still being mid-January. Buccaneer squinted at them as they climbed through the window, and scrambled to sit up. They lost their coats, the winter still burying Central in an ice cold layer of snow. And quite out of the ordinary, both seemed alarmed.

A newspaper was handed to him and sitting down on Bucc’s bunk, the big guy reading over his shoulder, Miles could feel his mouth drop open. Behind him Buccaneer gasped and looked at the girls, sitting on their desk chairs, unbelieving.

“That’s absolute nonsense! Why the hell should the Ishvalans attack them? They`re surely not as harebrained as this article wants to make them seem!”

The man’s ire was nothing new to him, even though it was pretty hard to get it to rise, Buccaneer normally being of the relaxed kind. And it felt good that he instantly saw that there was something wrong with the news in this article, full of inconsistencies as it was. It gave him hope that plenty of other people would see that there was something wrong, too. But if the government really wanted to wage war, they would surely find a way to make the Ishvalans seem like the antagonists.

Miles took a deep breath.

_Don’t lose your head now. Think rationally._

“It is possible that Ishvalans attacked that base, we can’t rule that out. But they were thoroughly disarmed after the last time the military was active there. And from what I know, the eastern forces and the Ishvalan populace had worked on building up trust again. Somethings fishy.”

They lapsed into silence, Buccaneer still angry, Sherry clearly worrying. Olivier sitting on the chair, arms crossed, thinking with her eyes closed. If war would truly be waged against Ishval, it wouldn’t be long until someone who knew his heritage would stigmatise him as a traitor. Not that many people knew, but dark skin and white hair weren’t exactly common and it wouldn’t be long until someone connected the dots and ripped the glasses from his face.

Sherry broke the silence, sounding fearful and ready to fight at the same time.

“What are we gonna do? Should we protest?”

“Could work,” He had to give himself a second to think. This was a situation unlike any other he ever encountered, living with his mother in his hometown never having been as dangerous for him, “but we have to remember that everybody who’s leading an anti-war rally will be closely observed. Makes it dangerous for all of us.”

“Worked before though,” Buccaneer sounded grim, but taking into account his background he wasn’t wrong, “when the war brewed with Drachma, the people of both sides were able to stop it. Protested, because many families were made up of members of both countries and the whole economy was knit together. No one was willing to fight.”

The silence returned, Armstrong not having said anything yet, the indecision hanging in the air. When it came to such matters, to things of such serious nature, their little group had learned to not only value her opinion, but they followed it mostly. Her logic was hard to beat, her ability to take their knowledge into account and calculate the best tactic to proceed on usually yielding the best results. He couldn’t deny that he wanted to hear what she had to say.

“That whole thing is more than fishy,” He could see how she mulled over every word now, brain surely in overdrive, trying to think of all the possibilities, “everything seems so wrong in this article, like it was carefully crafted to appease the populace. It wouldn’t surprise me if they published a list of the fallen tomorrow.”

One of her arms found its way under her chin, teeth worrying her lower lip in thought. She was not looking at anybody, but basically staring of into space.

“And why would they force-recruit? They solved the issue the last time ‘round with State Alchemists. They surely could now too, they have more than ever,” It only now occurred to Miles that she wasn’t even really talking to them, but to herself,” And where do those damn weapons come from? Maybe someone from the military posed as one of them… No, they wouldn’t trust a blue coat, not after everything that happened. Maybe from elsewhere, Xing or…”

“Livie?” The blonde snapped out of her trance when Sherry called out her nickname, softly touching her shoulder,” That’s all very interesting, but what should we do? You make it sound like time is somewhat short!”

She took her time then, was silent so long that not only Sherry and Bucc squirmed, but he too. She grew up in this city, through her father knew how the military worked in its highest ranks. God, everybody had seen the photo some jealous guy had dug up to humiliate her. Too bad that everyone had simply thought the around seven-year-old Olivier, showing her teddy-bear to the Fuhrer who had knelt down to her level, to be really, really cute. Not that she especially liked that either. If anything, she early on learned how influence worked.

“We need to get you out of here, Miles!” She was looking him in the eyes then, his glasses not in place in the privacy of their rooms. The intensity of her gaze made him wish that he’d put them on. “I think that they truly want to wage war on Ishval, no matter the reason. And in extension they will want to get rid of as many Ishvalans as possible. Either you will be force-recruited or they will try to have every Ishvalan not living there registered, depends on how far they’ll dig into the personal records of people. For your safety we should get you away, at least for the time being.”

He felt resistance rise inside of him. Doing nothing and hiding away seemed wrong to him, like abandoning his people. And even though he understood the severity of the situation, knew that the blonde only wanted to help him, he couldn’t help the ire that crept into his voice.

“You think I should just hide away, like I’ve done something wrong? It’s the government that seems to run rampart with their racism, or their unwillingness to include a different believe or whatever!” For a moment he was at a loss for what to say, knowing that he was too harsh, letting out his anger in the wrong place, but he couldn’t help himself. “My only fault is coming after my grandfather and I think that’s no reason to hide! Why shouldn’t we go out and protest? Start a rally? In all honesty, we should try to help the Ishvalans! Or are you afraid that someone will hear you say something critical? Afraid to screw up the last shred of your reputation?”

It blinded him, his pent up rage, having started to accumulate years ago, when the first conflict in Ishval started. Felt like nobody even tried to understand _his_ point of view in that. They had not lost family members, they had not grown up with a mother desperate to hide his eyes, even though it pained her endlessly to do that. Had not had people look down on them just because of what the colour of his skin paired with the white of his hair usually meant.

While he was searching for clothes and coat, desperately needing some space, he only heard Armstrong’s heated response with one ear.

“Oh Miles, cut that crap! You`re aware of how that kind of stuff you just spewed could get you in serious trouble?!”

He did not care, just opened the window and left. He did not remember climbing down the ladder, did not know how far he had walked until he felt the soft touch of a hand. When he had turned, almost ready to response nastily, Sherry’s soft gaze calmed him somewhat. Linking her arm with his, she walked with him in silence until he was ready.

* * *

 

“He doesn’t want to understand that the greatest threat to him are pro-war-activist here in Central, doesn’t he?”

Olivier was pacing the small room, having passed him already countless times. The instant Miles had left through the window, Sherry hot on his heels after telling her best friend something along the lines of “he didn’t mean it this way”, the blondes ire started to quell.

“There was no forewarning, nothing to indicate that there were new problems in Ishval. It’s sudden and not matter what happened down there, the military already talked about their version of events. And I’m quite sure that they will not give us another!”

“So you think that riled up people could be the most dangerous? Why?”

She stopped in her tracks and looked at him. For a moment he felt insecure, as he was still sitting on his bed in only his boxers, a blanket wrapped around his lower half. That thought vanished from his mind when he saw her expression change, the hot-red ire from before finally winding down to a low simmer.

She slumped on the edge of the bed, palms pressing against her eyeballs for a small moment. He knew it to be relaxing for her, helping her with thinking and calming her down. Taking her hands from her face, breathing deeply, she turned, folding her legs under her body, looking directly at him.

“Remember the last war, that attack on the small town of Resembool? Right after that a huge part of the people were fully supporting the war on Ishval. They were even rounding up Ishvalan-looking people in the streets, believing them to be traitors. And if that whole affair gets heated up like that again and Miles is running around, yelling pro-Ishvalan slogans, the military will surely imprison him. If we don’t find him dead in a ditch beforehand.” She paused for a moment, taking a look around the room. “People are stupid, and people that are also full of fear are downright dangerous.”

“You don’t think that the people will smell the fraud? I mean, you figured it out pretty fast.”

She sighed and looked at him, that last angry simmer going out without much of a fuss. Her head she rested against the wood of the ladder and, after untangling them from under her, stretched her legs. She even managed to make it seem like nobody’s business when her feet came to rest against his leg.

“I don’t think I have it figured out big guy, I’m just guessing. For all we know Ishvalans could be attacking all the time, truly forcing the military to respond. Or the higher-ups are just making it all up to finally get rid of them. Maybe the truth is a bit of both. The only important thing now, is that we keep Miles from getting himself killed.”

He pressed back into her feet, revelling in that new kind of closeness they shared. It wasn’t much, only that they synced even more and that his heart fluttered more often, the fact that he could make her laugh. It was enough though, to make Sherry stare at them intently, to have Miles ask him weirdly worded questions. To set the rumour-mill on fire when the semester started again.

“He really didn’t mean it that way, you know?” He knew it was the tone of voice that usually got him accusations for being a damn sob. But he knew that she would understand, interpret it just right. “It’s just, he’s so angry because he could never help any of them, all the while living holed up in a small town, almost completely safe. And now, finally able to do something, you tell him not to. To run, to be safe again, and…” An angry look had him hold up his hands in a mocking defeat-gesture, but he still spoke on. “…and you know I’m with you there, he should get his stupid ass to safety. But you’re an Amestrian!”

He was pretty sure he’d never seen her so bewildered before, brows drawn together, her gaze questioning instead of pissed. Could hear the gears turning in her head, trying to make sense of what he just said. It occurred to him that it probably never had occurred to her.

After a few more moments of staring at him, she caved in. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I’m half drachman, half mountain tribe. Sherry is half cretan. Miles is part Ishvalan, aerugan and only the gods know what else. You`re a full blooded amestrian, complete with blue eyes and blonde hair.”

“I still don’t get it!” She huffed and by the pressure of her feet he could feel her ire rise again. Not understanding something grated on her nerves. “Yes, I’m born and raised an amestrian, but why is that suddenly a problem?”

He could pinpoint the exact moment realisation hit her. She paled, her shoulders slumped. Her voice was quiet when she spoke again.

“But there’s nothing I can do about that.”

“Don’t beat yourself up. Talk to him, try to understand him. And then hold his feet while I carry him towards the next train North.”

That, at least, got a half-smile out of her.

* * *

 

After that first day, things progressed much faster than any of them would have anticipated.

They all received letters, informing them that they were recruited for differing reasons. The envelopes not even arriving a week after the first fateful newspaper article, leaving those sceptical with the unsettling feeling of their fears confirmed and the supporters praising the state and its fast work. The overall mood in the city was tense, almost heated, as over the last week many a report from Ishval had come in, all of them exclusively blaming the Ishvalans for the renewed conflict, or painting the amestrian forces in a heroic light.

Sherry was called to the front, as was most of her class, because medical personal almost constantly seemed to be in low supply. The same went for Olivier, as the military had a desperate need for technical maintenance. Buccaneer and Miles though, were both called in to bulk up the already strong military forces, officially at last. To their little group, having observed who else got recruited quite closely, it was clear that it was because of heritage. Those recruited were only rarely of purely amestrian decent, often known as critical or problematic.

The time they had left until the first date of departure was short and after much screaming and debating, they got Miles on a train. Northbound, a letter from Buccaneer in his coat pocket, explaining everything to his parents. The border region was rather safe, as military forces had to prove good reason to search people native to it randomly. Also, it was almost inaccessible.

His departure had hurt, had shaken them all up, but Sherry was hit the hardest. Crying into Olivier’s shirt she spend the night, hoping that he safely made it up there. That they would not catch him, as his official train was to depart in two days and deserters were severely punished when caught. Bitterly Olivier thought how it was for the best that he went up there though, Central City having become a cesspit of hate over the last few days. Had he joined the forces, they would have placed him front row, if they even let him live that long. If he even made it out of Central until then.

Only a day after Miles departure, Sherry had to board her train. She would get an introduction to field work in East City, then be shipped out to her post. Most of the med students left together, duffle bags thrown over trembling shoulders, the other students almost forming a guard of honour. They waved and wished their friends and loved ones well, many trying to push down the fear that befell them when thinking about leaving themselves in a short time.

And now Olivier was left standing in the room she had shared with her best friend. The little brown haired girl that had not been deterred by her hash words when they first had met, shortly after her sixteenth birthday. The girl had grown into a woman, never afraid to be honest with her, green eyes firmly set on her goal. It occurred to the blonde that over the last four years, she and Sherry had never been parted for more than four weeks at a time. That she so rarely had slept alone, she could count the nights on one hand. Fear crept into her.

The room was almost empty, Sherry’s father having made the journey to Central in a lend car, not only picking up his daughter’s belongings, but also hers, Buccaneers and Miles. The University administration had asked those recruited to clean out their rooms, should a fast win not be possible. In truth, Olivier thought bitterly, they just didn’t want to deal with your stuff, should one not come back. It was blank and quiet, almost eerie. If she was honest with herself, it creeped her out. Not that she would ever admit that out loud.

She feared coming back to an empty room. Feared for her friends, North- or Eastbound alike. Feared for her brother, the newspaper having stated that everyone who had passed the first state exam as an alchemist, was to report to the closest military command. He had wanted to become an alchemist to help the people, not to go fight in a war. He was strong, stronger than he thought even, but she feared that it wasn’t enough to keep him sane. She even feared for Mustang, their friendship from back then having turned into a rivalry of sorts, because he was without question the most ambitious person she knew. Feared that he could lose himself, trying to climb the ladder.

She feared the dark and the silence of this room. Feared being alone.

With a small start she remembered that she wasn’t.

* * *

 

He had stared at the blank wall when she had knocked on the window pane. Wrapped in her coat, duffle bag over her shoulder, standing next to their sleigh. They had taken it out as often as possible ever since he bought it and her laughter was still ringing in his ears. He let her in, already ready to go to bed, even though he had to admit that finding sleep had been futile. She spoke while she shed her coat.

“Is it okay if I crash here tonight?” And she was already in the process of making herself at home, almost rendering the question a mere necessity. But she gave him a reason, albeit not looking too happy. “It’s kind of weird in an almost empty room, alone.”

Others would maybe have laughed, or rejoiced at Olivier Armstrong displaying weakness. But the seconds the words left her mouth, he knew what had been keeping him from falling asleep, what had made all of the current events so hard to bear. And so he reassured her, while she was already pulling down her pants, changing for the night.

“Sure do.” And he felt his mouth go pleasantly dry when she pulled her shirt over her head, admiring the ripple of strong muscles, dancing when she moved. Reminded himself to shut his eyes, not wanting to betray the trust she put in his decency. “You gonna leave the window open a bit?”

He heard the soft padding of her socked feet, the zipping noise of a bag being opened. Heard how she pulled something over her head and walked over to the switch, turning off the last light. Heard her voice in the darkness.

“Like always.”

The scrapping noise of the window and then, nothing. The sound of indecision. Before he could ask, a knee met his side. Her knee.

“Don’t take up all the space!”

She sure sounded demanding and dutifully he scooted over, wondering what that was suddenly about, while his heart was busy with beating out of his chest. She did crawl in next to him, apparently trying not to touch him. Lying next to him awkwardly, stiff as a board. He couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped him.

“What the hell are you laughing about!?”

Her knee found a certain spot with pinpoint precision and he wheezed out the rest of his laughter. Even that couldn’t keep the happiness from bubbling inside of him.

“It’s just, first you act like you own the place and now you’re lying there, clearly uncomfortable. There’s another bunk above this one, remember?”

And by the movement of the mattress he knew her to be squirming next to him, but she made no move to get up.

“I... it’s just…” He heard the deep breath she took, still wondering why she was stuttering all of a sudden, why she seemed so nervous. “I’ve never done _this_ before.”

And instantly he knew just what she was referring to. This wasn’t about being close in a sexual, physical way. They had once talked about it, recounted the stories of their first times, all four of them together. Miles was shocked when he learned just what went down in a boarding school. No, this was about lying next to someone with your heart beating out of your chest, not because of recent activity, but for a whole other reason. And he knew her to be uncertain, to still think so little of herself when it came to such matters.

“I’ll walk you through it.”

He pulled her close with a bout of bravery, heart stopping for a moment when his hands made contact with the fabric of her shirt. The kind of thread he knew, the embroidery on the back. Had given it to her himself, aware of its meaning. She felt his hesitation then and, apparently moving back to give him some space, her insecurity hitting her, he pulled her even closer.

Let her head rest on his outstretched right arm, tucked well away under his chin. His left moved up and down her back slowly, trying to relax her, as she didn’t seem especially comfortable, yet. Slowly she settled though, his decisive movements seemingly having given her a bit more confidence. Still, she seemed at a loss at what to do with her hands, her legs, or the turmoil in her mind.

“Just try to turn off that overactive brain of yours, listen to your guts and your heart. Breathe.” And he could feel her relax a little more, felt her hands coming to rest against his chest. He wondered if she could feel the rumble of it when he spoke. “I’m never gonna leave.”

“What makes you so sure?” He felt her breath against him while she spoke, felt goosebumps rise.

“You now my middle name, right?” He felt her nod against him. “I got it, because when I was born a great white bear was close by. And we think that what is close to you when you are born, shares a kind of kinship with you, a spirit. The white bear is the protector of bears and that means so am I.” Her shifting towards him, filled his right hand with strands of her blonde curls and without hesitation he started to caress them. “And when I saw you, your fierce gaze, your determination, I knew you were a bear. Not a regular one I had to protect, but another great white. A protector. Kin.”

She was snug against him now, their legs having tangled of their own accord, their muscles relaxed. Yet, both breathless.

“Kin never leaves kin behind.”

It was a fact stated, inconvertible. A promise, too. A decision, stronger than any fleeting heartbeat could ever be.

Her lips against his felt like a promise sealed.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rating went up, mild blood and gore ahead, so handle with care if you can't stomach that well.

“Quite a troop you’ve got there Major; I’ve got to admit that.”

“Thank you Colonel Grand, Centrals finest as far as I know, engineering wise at last.”

“So you get to train the students from Central University? They are quite engaged in various sport teams I heard. Better than some you have it then. Many complained to me about the lacking endurance of the students they got.”

“With them there’s nothing to complain about, rest assured Colonel. The only thing that’s caught me off-guard, was that among them was a young woman, because of name apparently wrongly recruited.”

On the barracks porch stood two men, one of average, the other of exceptional height. Clothed in the uniform of the blue-coats, Major and Colonel respectively. The taller of the two, Colonel Grand, paid the East City training grounds a visit, inspecting the troops. Which was in this case a fluke, really, the engineering corps not even in the military ranks, but declared as private contractors. But still, the man wanted as few to die as possible, military or not, and responsible for declaring troops ready for duty, he tended to this with a stubborn correctness.

The smaller of the two seemed a little pinched, even though the taller man’s praise made him proud, deserved or not. Lowly he spoke on.

“I wanted her removed, but the recruitment office demanded me to train her, both, practical and theoretical skills, apparently a win for the troop. I have to admit though; I don’t like it. Women always mean unrest.”

The tall man shifted, knew the women the Major was speaking of. He’d after all read the troops name-list, hers one you stopped at.

“How would you rate her performance so far?” Knowledge he needed, he told himself. Old sponsors having nothing to do with it.

“She’s not half bad, admittedly. Even though she has a physical disadvantage when it comes to the men, she manages to keep up. Good at the shooting range, but better with large calibres. Better than the men at hand to hand and apparently trained in the art of the sword. Her professional competence I can’t rate, as I only know very little of it.” The gravel in front of the porch crunched and threw the darkness ran a figure, passing them without glancing in their direction. “Stubborn as hell I might add. She is to run until she throws up, but refuses too.”

There was more than inspecting the troops bringing him here today. Reports, over the complete two months, by many different people. The Major was known to train those under his care hard, but repeatedly there were cries of unfair treatment now, something that needed to be investigated. The press was watching the military carefully and Grand had been schooled by his superiors, that nothing was to leak out.

“There were reports Major, that you systematically bullied a man named Johnson into leaving the troop?” He had climbed through the ranks the traditional way, only taking his state exam after reaching the rank of Major on his own. He had been promoted to Colonel, because he knew how to use his gained authority. How to creep up to a problem, he had learned from several of his subordinates.

The Major shifted a little from left to right, lowering his voice.

“His practical skill was undeniable, but in the physical exams he fell behind again and again.” Grand knew the man’s file. Involved in a car crash two years ago. On average you needed three to get used to automail. “The leg gave him hell and a friend of mine, automail-engineer, told me of the disastrous combination this kind of prosthetic would be in desert climate.”

Malfunctions were to be expected, the Colonel knew as much. And he could not remember people with such being recruited to the military before. If ever, they had been members beforehand. But it was good to know, that the Major tried to keep people safe, who could be made into easy targets. Still, the knowledge that people unfit for the coming conditions had been force recruited, let questions bloom in his mind.

“If you read the files, you’ll notice that Johnson never reported me himself.” The Major was still uneasy, explaining himself. For decades he trained new recruits now. Never had he been questioned before.

“The vast majority of the remaining reports concern Miss Armstrong. Is there something I should know?” The man next to him did not calm, but watched as the running figure passed them yet again. “There were problems at first, with the men. Those of her class worked flawlessly with her, but the rest tried either to put her down, or to downright violate her. She held her ground and obviously has friends in the troop, seemingly very protective ones, but I still fear that she could be a liability in the field.”

Grand thought that the man’s words sounded rehearsed and thought it best to coax.

“You are aware Major, that her work while on the field, is not planned to bring her, or any of her troop, in contact with the enemy, right? Are you one hundred percent sure that your own uncertainties concerning Miss Armstrong are the reason for your insecurity regarding her ability to move out with the rest of the troop in four days’ time?”

The man sighed and Grand now truly knew that he’d hit home. Armstrong was not an unknown name to him, to nobody in the military. General Armstrong was, albeit retired, very well-known and still influential. And his desire to keep his daughter out of the military hadn’t receded since her sixteenth birthday, and not even with her scandalous expulsion from the family. The man’s arm was a long one.

“As Miss Armstrong was force recruited as a private contractor, I’m unable to expel her manually. My superior has informed me that a recall through Armstrong herself would be permitted and her contract terminated, if she so wished. That I was to do everything in my power, to help her make this decision.”

The Major looked nervous, almost constipated, trying not to look the Colonel in the eye. Grand clapped one of his big hands down on the man’s shoulder, grinning.

“Relax Major. We all know that the Armstrong families reach is long, but there’s nothing you’ll have to worry about. Their known to be stubborn, the young lady over there no exception. You’ve tried and albeit I’m sure nobody will thank you, neither Miss Armstrong, nor her parents, you tried your best. And don’t wonder if you could’ve done more, because if she had wanted to leave, she would be gone already.”

The man did not relax, remained rigid, thoughts still running wild. He knew that two months of training were too little time to get them ready for the field. Grand knew that too, but assured him that he did what he could. He would persuade himself of that too, until the first one of them came back in a casket. The Colonel clapped him on the back and got ready to leave.

“On second thought Major, you could do one more thing. Let the laps end and let her rest. They’ll be shipped out in four days’ time, remember?”

* * *

 

They taught you a lot in medical school. How to find veins and how to console those dying. How to keep people from bleeding out and how you sometimes had to make them bleed, just so you could properly heal them. How to handle stress, because a double shift in the emergency ward was nothing short of a pain. Bandages, plasters, stitches. Tubes, glue and a heartbeat-monitor. They taught her how to use all of that.

They hadn’t taught her how to work without it.

All students recruited, from med schools all over the country, had been given an introductory. How to behave on a battlefield when getting patients out of the fray. The way you talked best to those injured, so you wouldn’t upset them. What a chain of command was and exactly why it was so important to abhor it. That they would be assigned to “mentors”, as students were not yet suited to work alone. How they should prepare for rather unimpressive injuries, nothing more than splinters surely.

She was just bathing strips of cloth in antiseptic, thinking of the old hag and it’s so called splinters, when another bang rattled the ground. The fourteenth today. Not that it was much when she recalled the last four days, but they were coming closer. Leaving the soaking rags, because they were indeed little more than rags, she tended to those already soaked through. One by one she hung them on a line under the roof, standing on her tip toes while doing so, not for the first time wishing for Bucky’s height.

Her first mentor had been a man named Knox, completely averse to even taking on students. But she had by now learned that the military had its ways to convince people and so he had taken her in without much of a hassle. After a few weeks of relatively easy fieldwork, even if the conditions were in no way ideal, he had even somewhat taken to her, pleasantly surprised with her ability to work under stress. She learned something new every day and soon treated wounds with ease that would have left her shaking only three months ago. The scarce resources she learned to manage smartly and to make use of what she had. Even if it only were unused undershirts.

Bullet wounds and cuts, small splinters from grenades. Burn wounds of all degrees, in this weather conditions by far the worst. They almost always got infected, the smell putrid, and even though they often managed to save the wounded soldier, amputations or other kinds of lasting damage weren’t rare. Grenades produced the grisliest of all wounds in her opinion and left the most corpses in their wake. Vividly she remembered a young boy, no way older than seventeen, with a hole in his chest that enabled her to see his ribcage, his lung moving underneath. In the moment she had only worked, not thought, but afterwards Doc. Knox had found her puking and crying.

He had not raged, not at her at least. But they both had talked about the alarming number of wounded before, especially when the vast number of amestrian soldiers was compared to the few armed Ishvalans. It left her wondering, how it all fit together.

Six months into the war, she was appointed new mentors. A Colonel named Grand Informed Doc. Knox that he would specially care for the soon to be deployed state alchemists from now on. No, he could not take his appointed student with him and no, he wouldn’t be appointed a new one for this task. Then the huge man had turned to her, informing her that she would move out in two days, to be taken under new wings.

Taking dried rags from the line, she grinned at the thought that Liv could surely beat the man to a whimpering pulp. Or could order him to be nicer at least. Not that he had been especially mean, but just a man as worn out from battle as she was from healing.

The next batch of soaked rags found its place on the line, surely bone dry in fifteen minutes’ tops. The heat had been unbearable at first, her clothes usually soaked through before the sun reached its highest point. But she’d gotten used to it by now. Taking the rags turned bandages, she moved towards the patient’s room.

The building they worked in must have been an Ishvalan temple before, the whole decorum like something out of Miles tales. In the great hall, they treated the wounded. A side room was hers, even though she’d only taken a handful of things with her. Her new mentors were at least as capable as Doctor Knox had been and right of the bat a whole lot nicer. Not that Knox hadn’t been, but he’d taken more time to warm up to her.

And now, after over two months under the watchful eyes of the Rockbells, she felt like a Central City emergency ward was the smallest challenge she ever faced.

* * *

 

The caribous hated him.

Not that it was a big problem, they were grumpy all around and he even hated them back. They tended to like that. No, the problem was that so many emotions seemed to swirl through him at any time, making the animals nervous. And so they ran around him in a circle, while he sat on a stumped tree, watching them.

He had brought her a letter from her son, this Ishvalan man, begging her and in extension the whole family, to hide him. Those written words, the script of her son seeming more practiced to her than before, surely because of the note-taking in class, wouldn’t have been needed. But well, the manners she taught him years ago had settled in his mind, which wasn’t too bad.

When the man, packed in a thick coat and still shivering, had been delivered by their next hut neighbour after wandering too far east, she felt that he was troubled. Trouble too, but it was against her believes to turn him away and the letter was as good as an invitation in their culture. So she let him in, calm, because should anything go wrong, well, her hunting knife was always close by. And after she sat him down and warmed him up with some tea, she had read the letter.

The first two pages had been dedicated to the current events, to why this young man was sitting in their hut, currently inspecting his fingers for potential frostbite. With pain in her heart she read how her little baby was called to the front and even though he was strong, a white bear, a hunter and protector, she felt the fear creep into her soul. The man opposite of her was watching, she knew, but he was here and would stay for the time being and, even though paper was patient, her son was thousand miles away, probably already shipped out and fighting for his life. She wanted to read what he wanted to tell her.

As expected, he tried not to worry her. Told her of his New Year’s celebration, as always joking about how the amestrian’s greeted the new year too early. Classes, work, snow in the city, which made the winter break a hundred times better. Of a sleigh he bought, which he apparently put to good use, promising her that he didn’t break any bones like he used to when he was little. That he and his friends had fun with it, all of them, even going so far as to hold contests who could ride down a mountain the fastest. That he had won the team-contest, Olivier being a hundred times better at steering than Osip has ever been.

The photo attached with a little metal pin showed her son and his friends, she remembered his smile when he talked about them at his last visit, standing close and smiling into the camera. All of them were powdered with snow, a bit red in the face and thoroughly worn out, but happy nonetheless. She did notice how close her son was standing to the blonde, Olivier, arm thrown over her shoulders. Remembered the gleam in his eyes when he talked about her, remembered how her mother informed her that she’d looked exactly the same after the first time she met her now-husband. It was just a picture and stupid, but her thumb caressed over his face still.

He wrote that he missed them, how he would surely soon be able to visit. That they should not worry, but she already did. The man opposite of her seemed to grow uncomfortable with her ongoing silence and she decided on mercy.

“Tell me your name, boy.”

She had already known it of course, but there were customs to stick to.

“Miles. Javed Miles.” His teeth weren’t chattering anymore, but there had still been haste in his voice and she had wondered where he so desperately wanted to be. “I’m very thankful for taking me in, but I need to go to…”

“There’s nowhere you can go, boy.” She had to cut in, had read her son’s words and knew them to be true. The red-eyed man had to be protected from his own bravery. “At the moment, there is nowhere you can go. You’ll be frozen until you’re even near the next settlement.”

The boy was pent up rage, that much was clear. Balling fists, contorting features. For a moment she had expected him to scream at her, but after a few tense moments he’d slumped back on his stool.

To get his mind of off things, she had put on her coat and acquainted him with the caribous. He would care for them every day now, after all. Just as he was now.

* * *

 

The explosions lasted until late into the night this time. It made it harder to sleep and didn’t help with that feeling of uncertainty constantly gnawing at her since the resident contingent of soldiers was moved some miles forward. But sleep was few and far in between anyways, so she wouldn’t complain. There were people who needed her, literally here, but at home too. And she desperately hoped they were all alright. She had written to a whole bunch of people, more than once. Her monthly pack of letters she handed over to the supply-officer, who promised to leave them at the forces postal service. But he never returned with any for her and she dearly hoped that they simply couldn’t be delivered.

The Rockbells hadn’t gotten any letters either, which gave her hope that her friends were still alive, but also filled her with anger. They had a little daughter at home, not a day older than eight. Yuriy had shown her pictures of a little blonde girl, looking so much like her mother. They had been with her whilst the ceasefire lasted and the girl had apparently been heartbroken when her parents had to leave again. She was not old enough to really understand, her father said, but there were two little boys living close by, who would at least keep her some company. Sherry did not doubt that this would help the girl only very little with missing her parents.

But through all of their fears, they still worked tirelessly. Yes, she knew that she was pushing certain thoughts away, as she knew that they could easily distract her. That Buccaneer was in a unit on the foremost front. That the engineering corps had the highest death rates off all, it’s members trained only for a short time, because of the high demand. Rumour even had it that the military was scouring the land for those not having shown up at their demanded posts. That the Brigg’s mountains were searched as thoroughly as possible. That… another explosion.

Not uncommon in the night, but still unusual, given the time. They only ever started at dawn again, most of the days. She had almost drifted off again, when the door to her room slammed open.

“Sherry, sorry to wake you, but we need some help.”

She quickly threw the apron over her front and went out, hot on Miss Rockbells heels. The injured already in residence, partly soldiers, partly Ishvalans, roused too, made way for the stretchers carried in. Yuriy waved her over to him, seated next to a white haired man, maybe twenty years old. His eyes were closed, skin pale and sweaty, breathing shallow. Tall he had to be and strong, judging by his muscled form. A pleasant face too. The wound on his forehand though looked grisly and when Mr. Rockbell lifted the sheet covering his torso, she gasped.

The arm looked torn off and badly sewn on again. The skin was open, almost gaping, and she did not know what happened there, because it looked unlike anything she’d ever seen. Still, she got to work, cleaning the wound. Hesitation as to what to do remained and she decided to first take care of the other wounds of the man, cleaning and sewing up what she could. Their supplies were dangerously low, the rags turned bandages one of the few things they had left.

“Should we sew the arm?”

Yuriy Rockbell wasn’t looking at her, but she only needed his words anyways.

“If you can, yes. But notice how some of the muscle groups, albeit being in the same category, don’t seem to fit? Superficially yes, but not when you look closely.”

Now that he said it she saw, taking it into consideration for the sewing process. She would have to work accurately, so that the man could use his arm to the fullest. Even though, with each stich she made, it gnawed on her that the arm did not seem as the man’s own. Which was a ridiculous thought of course.

Maybe she needed to sleep more.

* * *

 

He had never seen so many of _his_ people, gathered in one spot before.

They trained together, learned how to handle a weapon, what a chain of command was and what awaited them on the battlefield. When they were shipped out, it was to the foremost front this war had to offer. They build tents, dug latrines and trenches, wrote letters and discussed, why half their camp could speak drachman.

When the first attacks came, he wondered why they were laying in the trenches with mediocre weapons, when the best of the best was holed up in camp. Wondered, why nobody seemed to back them up, their first trench being stormed twice by the enemy in one week. Sheer luck helped him survive and after some time their platoon shrunk by half.

Tunak he liked the most of his comrades, knowing him from school. They were around the same age when the state’s education law had passed and had shared the lessons, the prejudice and the beatings. Friends they’d become, true friends, and soon they talked about everything, bullets flying over their head or not.

“Just my luck, you know? Was selling pelts in North City, when the force recruiting began. Barely had the time to write to my family, before they shipped me to basic training.”

“That’s plain bad luck. Angered your ancestors again, didn’t ya?”

The man’s mouth turned into a grin, the marks of eagle and hare on his neck moving while he laughed.

“Rich, coming from the man that managed to brake his leg twice, in the same year, by equally stupid accidents!”

The banging in the distance could not deter them, knew that it was senseless to lift your head out of the trench to fire back. You only got shot that way.

“Do you know if they managed to scour the mountains at home for deserters?”

Not only Buccaneer was interested in that, but also many a rat military command had tried to plant in their midst Until now, they’d always found it before something sensible was told.

“My sister wrote that they tried, but that all the locals were so unhelpful, that they soon gave up, the cold unmanageable without their help.”

“So little Akra is grown up now? Who would’ve thought.”

“She’s not so little anymore, Bucc. But not your type, judging by that photo you’re carrying around with you.”

The man’s grin was a flicker in front of his vision.

“Coming from the man who married my cousin!”

“Oh cheer up you bear! That makes us family!”

Throughout the war their platoon only rarely changed station, for the first time shortly after the deployment of the state alchemists. Main camp on Kanda’s border.

He had not expected to meet Alex Armstrong here, had heard so little from his friends, the only one writing regularly being Sherry. From Miles he heard threw his mother’s letters, from Olivier he heard nothing. Alex told him that many noticed how little letters from the engineers as a whole came, how their death-rate was the highest, compared to their numbers. That nobody he’d asked, had seen his sister. Two weeks later the man was shipped out, refusing to kill.

After twelve more hours in the trench, he was jealous of that. Before he’d even gone to war, the senselessness of it had been clear to him. He’d shot as little as possible, had buried too many people, had dug too many graves. It was not right to kill people and when the order of annihilation came, he had thought about resisting. Tunak had talked him out of that, advised him to stay and to act like he fought. They would keep on sitting in the trench, seeming like good little soldiers and keep their head down. He worried for his friends, his comrades, for Miles. The most for Olivier, the prospect of a future so close and yet so far. Knew that she was still alive, felt it, but fearing that he one day would not.

Around them though, the war raged on. One of the state alchemists was Solf Kimblee, who he’d briefly known from College. He hadn’t been on the list of people he’d wanted to befriend and now, as he saw the man blowing up this land with the uttermost glee, it felt like a wasted opportunity to not shoot him. He was talked out of that too.

He vowed himself to never be talked out of something again when they carried him to the medics. He did not know how he was still awake, the pain in his right side blinding. It had been known that objects in the vicinity had been transmuted to explosives. Everybody knew who was responsible for that, but as of yet no accident had been reported and as the man was deemed too valuable, the powers that be let him do what he wanted.

So, nobody had expected that a cigarette-bud, carelessly thrown into the trench they were laying in, could make a supply-package explode. The force had knocked him back, something had teared, something had lodged and the sensation of burning had been almost unbearable. The pain lessened a fraction and the relief flooding him, seeing those around him scramble to their feet, made him forget about it altogether.

Until they’d reached the medical-tent that was, and he saw his right arm in the hand of an assistant. The pain rushed back while the head-doctor was called. Before the man reached him, he was screaming in agony. Only when someone pulled on the thing lodged into his side, he calmed. Sedatives kicked in, people running around him. Voices he did not recognize told him to stay awake, but he felt his lids go heavy.

Tunak was the first of those around him he could name, shoving a picture into his face. He had a hard time focusing on it.

“You’ve got to stay with us! I know it feels bad, but you can make it! Look, if not for me, then for her!”

He looked at the picture, remembered, and immediately tried to force his eyes to open further. He could not hear the Doctor dishing out orders, did not hear his insistence on keeping him awake. Buccaneer only heard his friend.

“Tell me, come on, what did she tell you before you were shipped out? I know you know!”

He fought through the fog trying to overtake him, searched in his mind. Her voice was etched into his memory.

“Die, and I’ll kill you!”

Even if he died, he’d do so grinning.

* * *

 

For four days now, they were without military protection. At night they stood watch in teams, the desert around them cold and uncomfortable, the scenery hard to overlook. Dunes could easily hide people until they were close enough to seriously harm them and if they truly wanted to secure the parameter, they all would have to be on watch right now.

Instead it was only him and Armstrong. She was walking the wide circle, keeping on top of the dunes, while he stayed close to the tent, looking into the direction she wasn’t. They were only twenty people now, fifteen of their little troop already killed. They had all started out in the main base of the Kanda region, shown how to work the military machines, what the typical problems were in this climate. A few injuries here and there, a motor blowing up, sending the bonnet flying. Petersons shoulder had been pierced by a thin scrap, Armstrong had been hit in the back by a sharp, larger piece. Both had been brought to the Docs tent and returned the next day with thick bandages. The rest of their troop had protested, claimed that they both should take some time to heal, but the shift leader was having none of it. Over the last six months, both of their wounds had reopened time and time again, shallow cuts now deep scars.

After some time in the main base, they had been implemented into a big platoon of soldiers, keeping their vehicles intact. Travelled with them to various villages. They stayed behind the front lines like they were told, and usually learned through the soldiers in the platoon, that women and children had already fled most villages they came across. Then orders from the top changed. Termination of the Ishvalan race, unforgivable acts, moving in the alchemists, all those news flew over their head. They were now forced to revive engines of vehicles standing in the middle of a battlefield, while those around them were shooting. Many of their platoon started dying, not only soldiers, but some of their own and medical personal too.

No exceptions were made anymore, nobody spared. When their usual tasks were done, the highest ranking officer would order them to dig holes for the corpses. Medical supplies started to get scarce and when those of the engineering corpse wanted their injuries treated, they had to wait for hours on end. Sometimes days. Two weeks ago they had been ordered to move to the nearest main base from where they’d been at the time. With only four military officers as protection. They’d been handed weapons, ammunition and scantly little rations. Fullman had seen the maps of the soldiers and told them that the region they were to wander through, was declared highly dangerous. All other directions were full with military posts, deserters shot without trial and after a denied protest, they went on their way. They’d been thirty-four when they first stepped foot into the desert.

Four uneventful days, then a little group of Ishvalan rebels, shooting at them. They fired back and killed them, for the first time actually hurt someone, and buried not only their own dead, but the Ishvalans too. Little more than boys they were. Two days after that, having lost their last blue-coat, Haversham, to infection the night before, they ran into another group of Ishvalans.

At first it had seemed like a standoff, because their troop did not wear blue, but a greyish-brown uniform, thick and somewhat fire-resistant. The group opposite of them seemed to be made up of all genders and ages, people fleeing from the war. Then one of the Ishvalan men had neared them, putting his weapon on the sand, his whole group following. The tension had eased a little, the man wanting to look at their map, talking to Armstrong. As soon as they’d first stepped foot on a battlefield, she’d become their unofficial leader. Others traded a little, ammunition for food and bandages. Then they parted, both groups heaving a sigh of relive. Wordlessly they had decided to not shoot anybody who did not shoot at them first. Screw the orders.

“Anything out of the ordinary?”

Armstrong passed him, voice raspy. They should reach their destination tomorrow, but they hungered for two days now, the water rationed tightly.

“No, nothing.”

They both started circling again.

The day after they had met the Ishvalan group, at the outskirts of Kanda, running into them again. Explosions in the distance they had heard the whole day, but their map spoke only of an abandoned military post. They had no way to truly defend themselves, an engineering troop without engineering supplies, and stayed clear of the noise. When they met the Ishvalans then, they were agitated. Some pointed weapons, women screamed. But the hesitation held.

Until a boy ran at them that was. Around his wrist was a machine, making a noise which put them on edge. When the child, crying in Ishvalan, ran up to them, the first person panicked and shot. He could not say for sure which side shot first, but in truth it didn’t matter. No one hit the boy, which came close to Armstrong and through the fray he had not seen, but Meyers, that she’d taken the boy by the wrist and looked at the machine on it. That she’d suddenly looked panicked, unsheathing her sword. The most awful thing’s Meyer’s had seen in this desert, he’d told him, a sword slicing a hand off being one of them.

The explosion following, had shook everybody to the core. The light was blinding, the noise leaving Herford partially deaf. Splinters flew and he’d asked himself how he could’ve been so blind as not to identify the object as a bomb. The screaming as cries for help. Almost unscathed, he’d burst into action. He saw the Ishvalans, many, so many, unmoving, helping those up that lived. Saw a women stepping up to Armstrong, who lay motionless in the sand, pulling the boy away from her, pulling him to his feet. Those living were running away from them, leaving a trail of blood.

Two more he couldn’t help, already dead when he reached them. Many had splinters piercing their skin, the sight a grisly one. Johnson helped Armstrong into a sitting position and Karley saw with one look, that she’d stood way to close to the bomb. Splinters littered her left side and he hoped they’d missed anything vital, because they’d been so close to their destination then. Willed every last ounce of luck to be on their side. And they had indeed managed to dress most of the wounds, had pulled splinter after splinter out of their comrades, hoping that those they couldn’t reach, were not piercing their hearts, lungs, or livers.

They’d moved a few more miles, until making camp in a valley. Helping the wounded again, discussing what just had happened.

Just as Armstrong called out to him to wake the others, dawn breaking, he came to the conclusion, that no Ishvalan would have built such a bomb. Which left him wondering.

* * *

 

“This evening the supply convoy will come.”

“You think they will bring letters this time?”

“I even doubt that they’ll bring us enough supplies.”

The last night left all of them tired. They had nothing left. A few soaked rags, but that was it. Patients had died, some lived. Almost all the wounds had been from explosions, but completely devoid of metal pieces, the flesh usually pierced by them. She wondered what kind of grenade exploded without splintering.

“Sherry, could you do us a favour? Yuriy and me?”

They were alone, trying to produce as much bandages as possible, not able to know what the convoy would bring.

“What do you need?”

The women took a deep breath and Sherry’s stomach churned with anticipation. Sarah Rockbell was usually pretty straight forward with her words.

“When the convoy comes today, would you drive back to base with them? We need more supplies desperately and someone to pick up the injured soldiers. And even though I hate for you to be gone for even a day, we need someone there to convince them.”

There had to be a snag. Something that wasn’t right. Sherry knew that the military posts usually didn’t take in Ishvalans. That what the Rockbells were doing wasn’t well conceived. But that couldn’t be the reason for the low supply packets they usually got. They were simply pretty far out here in Kanda, the next regiment of soldiers quite some time away. They surely only send her to get more. Maybe find out what truly happened to their letters. She smiled at Sarah, nodding.

“Sure, I’ll come back with more than we can use.”

* * *

 

In front of him were sitting ghosts. Doctor Marcoh had not expected the fourteenth engineering corps to arrive at the last main base. Nobody had, as almost none of the engineers sent on tracks to other bases ever made it. And they were few, fewer than they should be, more wounded than they should be. Compared to corpses at last.

His assistants had taken care of them, their base the last big one, the state alchemists operating from there. Water and food had been given out, wounds treated. They had apparently been bombed and when a Lt. Colonel was sent over to question them about it, Marcoh at least was given the information that there was one more notch on the post that was Solf Kimblee. No one told them this, but the Lt. Colonel soon got orders to get the group ready for the front, many vehicles in the city and on the campsite in bad shape. Several of the troop were sent to him, and he performed so many surgeries on what appeared to be grenade splinters, it made him loath that war even more. The highest ranking officer in the base told him to only remove those that were hindering their work, which left many with a body full of metal.

He’d taken splinters out of a blondes’ hand, several burns telling him that she’d stood pretty close when the bomb went off. Wondered, how many wounds were hidden beneath the standard engineer uniform she wore. If she was as scarred mentally as he was. All the while he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d seen her before, which made him remember her so well.

And just now he watched a team of five walk into the war zone. A truck was to be brought away, while the battle was still in full swing. The blonde was among them and over the past week, he had deduced that she was their leader. She’d argued with the superior officer; how many men she would take with her. That she would in no way take the whole squad. She was also the go to person concerning letters and rations, both of which the engineers hardly got. And now, walking towards the battlefield, the flames of the alchemists burning high, Doctor Marcoh wondered, if ghosts could die.

* * *

 

He had dubbed the caribou Sucker. It wasn’t very creative, but Ass and Shitster he had already used and sucker had fit the particular animal perfectly. For fifteen minutes he was now trying to catch the animal, so it hooves could be looked at. And it was evading him with so much skill, that he would have been impressed. If he weren’t so pissed that was.

Buccaneers family had taken him in without much of a fuss, and he could not complain as all of them were exceptionally nice to him. His mother was a small and slight woman, not at all looking like her son, but kind and clever and he knew that she at least, saw right through him. His brothers were only nearly as tall as him, black and brown haired respectively, having gotten quite a lot of their features from their mother. His father seemed a splitting image to him though, albeit older. Well, maybe half an inch smaller. The same black hair, long and braided, the same features. The only stark difference was the beard, as Buccaneer usually went without, his father however grooming a beard at least two inches long.

Sucker was now parting from the herd, trying for the woods. The snowfall had started to increase again over the past week, after over eight months of a manageable amount. The caribou still wanted to try, dashing out of sight. He lifted his hand, following the animal, and a short shout from the other side of the herd assured him that the others knew where he was going. If he did not come back in a certain amount of time, they would come looking.

He had lived with those people and tended to the animals on a daily basis. Working in a team was new to him, as he’d always been somewhat of a loner. Not of his own choosing, but still. If he was honest with himself, put his anger, his dark thoughts, to the side, those people were more than just nice to him. They treated him like family, cared, feed and helped him. Buccaneers father, demanding to be called Ugalik by him, more than once had set his head straight. He had wandered off without informing them once, had left a weapon at the tent and had not looked at the suns altitude. In the middle of the night they had found him, frozen half to death. When asked, he could not properly explain why he’d gone. The man had sat him down by the fire then, had sent everyone else into the warm tent.

“My son never told you of the brave fox, did he?” Miles had only shook his head, to cold, to numb, to do anything else. “A vixen once had three cubs. They were old enough to stick their head out of the burrow when their mother was away, but knew better than to go further. Now, even the spring and summer are cold and heavy with snow, but the cubs had already learned a lot, their fur slowly changing to the sleek white of their mothers.”

He could not say that he`d hung on the man’s lips particularly. His voice was deep, strong and the words urgent. Any other time he would surely have been engrossed, but not that day. He had listened anyways.

“One day, the mother gone, the little cubs were sleeping. Except for one that was, the middle one. He was fed up with waiting for the mother, wanted to see more of the world, wanted to show what a great fox he could be. So he crawled out of the burrow, for a second contemplating waking the others. Letting them know that he was playing in the snow. But they were sleeping so nicely and deep, so he let them sleep.”

He had, at that point, felt a bit patronized, sure what the moral of the story was. Chattering teeth had made it hard to speak.

“He wandered out into the snow, playing with the wind that blew through his fur. It carried a leaf on its unseen wings and he followed it. Only after many trees, the leaf lost, he saw that he did not knew where he was. A lot of the world he hadn’t yet seen, brave cub or not, but was convinced that he could find his way back. Mother had said that he should stay where he was if he got lost, to wait and hide, but he was so sure. And so he wandered, neither shrieked by the owls hoot or the bears roar in the distance. He did not fear.”

The man had not looked at him, instead gazing into the fire. He wore multiple layers of thin pelt, like he did, the light of the flames dancing on it. His eyes were dark pools, looking, but not seeing anything.

“He wandered around, greeted the squirrel and the mice. His wandering had lasted the whole day and well into the night, when he got close to his home again. He cried out once, sharply, like mother had taught him and soon he heard her feet in the snow. She nuzzled him shortly, but there was a smell on her he did not yet know. A foreign feeling took hold of him then and quietly he followed. Coming back to the burrow, slipping inside, he wanted to cuddle into his siblings. And then he saw what was amiss and understood what the smell had to be. His sister was gone, had searched for him with fear in her heart. Mother’s pelt smelled of his sister. Smelled of the bear. Smelled of an end.”

He had understood then and understood it even better now. It was the man’s way of telling him, to never endanger anyone ever again, for his own selfish reasons. For a deadbeat try to get to the next settlement.

In front of him, he heard snorting. He crouched down, cautious, until he could see that the snorting was indeed coming from the escaped caribou. His hoof seemed to be stuck. Silently he rounded the animal, so that it could see him when he neared it. Calmly he spoke.

“Sucker, Sucker, Sucker. Hold still, I’ll help you.”

The caribou trashed, the trapped hoof almost letting it panic. For a few moments Miles hesitated, remembering what Osip told him. _When you want to calm a caribou, you need to be just as calm as you want it to be_. A few deep breaths later, eyes closed so that he could concentrate on shutting everything off for a while, he tried to calm himself down. The animal stopped and grumbled. Without further problems he could free it and, taking it by the small leather strap around its neck, lead the way home.

When they reached the herd again, he could lead Sucker to the men, so his hoofs could finally be looked at. And, the animal letting itself be held still by him, nuzzling on his jacket, he truly understood that going off on your own, without a plan, was a stupid idea.

* * *

 

More dead eyes greeted him, when he rounded the corner.

They’d sent a team to get the truck apparently and he wondered if a bunch of scrap-metal was worth so many lives. He did not linger on their faces though, instead scouring the parameter. He did not know how often he snapped his fingers today, ended lives with the flick of a hand. Before going to college, learning from Berthold Hawkeye had seemed like such a good idea. And returning for his study-year, he had not imagined to attend a funeral instead. Had not imagined, that what he desired to learn the most, was in truth the result of a man, mad behind closed doors.

They seemed to be safe for now and he watched hands make quick work of an engine, saw a figure sliding beneath the vehicle. Only when he heard them speak with each other, it occurred to him that those were people he knew. The gaunt man working under the car, peeking out from time to time, was Karley. Football and college parties seemed so distant now. Peterson, working on the exhaust, Fender checking the tires. Somebody was rummaging in the interior of the car and he was almost sure that Sanders was that, his voice unique. Armstrong, elbow deep in the engine-bay. Her hair had been shortened, blonde, dirty ringlets peeking out under the greyish-brown cap.

Not one of them looked like themselves anymore. Thin, gaunt, exhausted. Eyes dead, no matter the colour. He wanted to say something, opened his mouth to speak, but could not think of anything worth saying. Eyes made contact with his and Armstrong nodded, almost indiscernible. It was relieving, in a way. He felt like a monster, but you could not see that. Still, he was sure she knew. Armstrong always did.

A shot rang out.

He could not tell if it were Hawkeyes or the Ishvalans and he noticed that not only him, but the engineers too, tried to discern from where it had come. Then Karley screamed.

The small team took cover, Sanders scrambling to pull Karley to them. Blood poured from his leg, in a quantity that suggested a hit arteria. The Ishvalans had to have gotten a lucky shot and for a moment he still stood in the open, waiting for something to happen. Until small hands pulled him back with a curse.

“Fucker, are you _trying_ to get yourself killed?!”

He watched into Armstrong’s ice, missing the bullet that hit the stone he’d a second ago stood on. Fender was putting a belt around Karley’s leg, the rest of the team readying their weapons. Jumbled voices.

“We need to get him out of here!”

“The house four paces back seems stable. Should we dash for it?”

“Not until we know where they’re shooting from!”

Bullets hit around them, a clinking sound filling the air when the truck was hit. He saw Armstrong suddenly lifting a bandage clad hand, looking at and smelling it.

“Fuels leaking out of the car! We need to get away as fast as possible! Mustang, do we have rear cover?”

It took him a moment to register her words, to understand that there was now something useful he could say.

“Hawkeye has our backs! When we first hear her weapon, we should dash!”

Armstrong considered for a moment, and for a second he wondered since when she was in charge, only to realize that she seemed the only one willing to be. When she opened her mouth again, a plan was made.

“When we hear her weapon, Fender and Peterson make a dash for it. Get Karley out of here! Only run at the sound of the snipers’ weapon! It’s deeper than the shots now!”

Agonizingly long the seconds seemed to be, until the desired sound could be heard. Like a well-oiled machine the three designated people ran. It left him breathless to watch them, the suspense ‘till they ducked into the house almost unbearable.

Again bullets impacting against the truck, then a pained sound from Sanders. Where shoulder and neck met was suddenly a bloody mess and when the next sound of their side reached them, Armstrong pulled the man next to her up and very much dragged him in the direction of cover, cursing the whole time. And suddenly it occurred to him, that he could indeed do something, that the fuel under them could help them survive. And so he snapped his fingers.

The truck he faced went up into flames, though he felt that one or two sparks escaped him. He heeded them no mind, just burnt in the direction of their attackers. This was supposed to be the last time he did that, the last day, felt his power grow and grow and get more perfect each time the surface of his gloves rubbed together.

Only when in front of him everything was gone, he remembered that there were others. Went to them, the group still holed up in that building, but others now reaching them, helping them. Watched them on their way to camp, how Karley was hurried to the medics. Saw each speck of blood on their faces, noticed the smell of burned flesh and when he saw what had happened to Armstrong’s thigh, he remembered the sparks gone astray. They’d sat in the fuel and for a second he wondered why they weren’t hurrying to get Sanders to the medics. Then he understood.

And Mustang watched with dead eyes, how the Officer in chief asked Armstrong were the truck was. Watched, with many others, how the blonde, bruised and bloodied and _burnt_ , decked the man in the face. Watched how first he, and then she, fell.


	10. Chapter 10

Buccaneers mother shook while she read. Osip had sold pelts in North City, had listened for news and had visited the postal office. Letters did not reach you in the Briggs mountains, not even when summer was approaching. One he’d brought back from his brother, a thick yellowish envelope. Hospital-paper. It was the first letter they got in over a year.

The only female in the tent had gotten the letter first, her husband and sons waiting their turn. He too did so, aware of how the women’s heart ached because of the continuing silence. After reading what couldn’t have been more than two lines, she went from shaking to crying. Shock spread through the room and Bucky’s complete family started to talk at the same time. Miles had learned a lot of drachman while living with them, but the many mingling voices were too much.

When silence fell again, he asked.

“He is alive. They all are.” Osip paused, face set into a grimace. “But mother says that he wrote with the wrong hand.”

It took him some time to understand that and only when the small women waved him over to the table and pointed at a certain passage, he truly got it. It somewhat looked like Buccaneer’s writing and sounded like him too, but at the same time it did not really look like it. It seemed wrong and got more scrawled as a sentence progressed. It looked like the writing of someone who’s hand didn’t know what it was doing, so unused to the movements that it seemed to be cramping almost constantly. Like someone was learning to write with the other hand.

“That’s not his!”

Adamantly Buccaneers mother was pointing her finger at the paragraph in question still, awaiting his answer. Somebody else had taken over writing quite obviously and it was not hard for him to identify it as Armstrong’s handwriting. Slanted slightly to the right, loopy and small at the same time. It seemed like they’d taken turns, the script changing when his hand cramped to badly apparently.

“That’s Olivier Armstrong’s handwriting.”

Watery, dark eyes bore into his for a second and the women nodded her thanks, returning to reading. She had asked him about her before, pulling out old pictures and letters her son had sent her. He’d answered truthfully, had tried to keep his own mixed feelings towards Armstrong out of them. Even felt relieved knowing that they both were okay. That neither of them was alone.

When everybody had gotten their turn with the letter, night had already fallen. Miles could hear Buccaneer parents talk quietly amongst themselves. His brothers were already snoring into their pillows, even though Osip had taken the time to inform him of the current situation concerning Ishvalans. That with the official end of the war a discrimination by law was impossible, but that every refugee that tried the bigger cities, vanished without a trace. That camps had formed, far away from other settlements, filled with refugees. That officials apparently ignored them.

He knew that Sherry was alive, apparently being in contact with Bucky and Armstrong. Bucky had lost an arm though an explosion, this passage in the letter so carefully worded that his father theorized that letters were maybe checked before being sent. It left Miles with an unsettling feeling, knowing that there seemed to be some kind of secret concerning this incident. Or accident, he didn’t even know. Wrote them that Armstrong was in the burn-ward, here too, offering no explanation.

A written recount of the happenings before the accidents was what shocked them though. The troop he served in had been blatantly made up of people with mixed heritage, pushed to the foremost front with little to no training. How they’d lain in the trenches, someone dying every day. He even sent a list of the fallen, written completely in Armstrong’s script. It had left him wondering, why sent such a thing? But now, lying on his cot, he understood that no one in this stretch of land would get informed of their passing. It would take weeks, maybe months, until the military would send someone up here. And now they had a list, something to give to the families living here, missing their relatives.

It was then that Miles knew, what he would do in the coming summer. There was no going back yet and he had all the tools he needed to pass on the news. Even if they were grim. He would wander through the Briggs Mountains, informing the families of the fallen.

* * *

 

“If you won’t take it, I will!”

The people in the entrance hall were starting to look, the sight before them not unusual nowadays, but interesting nonetheless. A man in a wheelchair, black hair slicked back, coat clean, looking amused. On his left stood a tall man, black mohawk braided and his clothing equally nice, waving a crutch in his left, and only, arm. He seemed angry and defeated and, as many a nurse in the area knew, worried. On the wheelchairs left stood the apparent reason for his anger, a slight blonde, dressed equally as nice as the men in her company, arms folded in front of her chest. The onlookers could see that one of the women’s legs was thicker than the other, under black tights apparently heavily bandaged.

Yes, funeral parties weren’t rare in East City anymore, more often than not venturing out from the hospitals of the city.

“Then carry it if you want to! I can walk just fine!”

The man in the wheelchair, usually called Karley, almost laughed when she angrily started to push him forward. They were indeed slightly late, their departure delayed by the crutch and the fight surrounding it. Armstrong’s leg was burned deeply, almost to the bone, and her being on her feet today was an exception made by head nurse Betty. If she kept her weight off the leg that was, hence the crutch. Betty had even gotten her the dress and tights for today, none of the clothes in her duffle-bag suitable for a funeral. Buccaneer and him had at least been provided clean pants and a dress shirt.

“You know the way?”

Buccaneer had fallen into step beside them, the crutch still in his hand. He still sounded gruff, but apparently backed down for the moment. The angry pace pushing the wheelchair slowed somewhat and Karley imagined how her leg already started to hurt. The left it was and even though he’d been delirious when she’d acquired the wound, he remembered the smell of it. Had seen her face when she’d lain in the cot next to his in the medical tent. It had also been his left leg that’d been hurt. A gunshot, hitting the arteria. They’d amputated, there in the sand and he’d been lucky not to have caught an infection. Her pain filled features had shown him how much it would have hurt.

“Hawkeye said the second on the left now.”

East City’s Military Hospital was filled with soldiers from the war. Karley shared a six-bed room with Buccaneer and a few people he did not really know. Those able to were visiting friends and relatives all the time anyway and even he, with one leg missing and no idea how to properly move this wheelchair, was constantly on the roll. Armstrong lay in the burn-ward, sharing her room with the only other female officer in the entire hospital. The Hawk’s eye the men called her and Karley knew that he owed his live to her. He’d wanted to thank her, but the burn-ward was off limits to those not being stationed there, the infection-risk high.

Armstrong sneaked out often enough, though.

“That’s it?”

“Guess so.”

The cemetery was on a small hill, green grass, every flower blooming. Several people had said that it was the most beautiful place in town right now, seemingly celebrating those buried there.

The group of black-clad people was easy to see, moving up the hill and so they followed. The gravel wasn’t easy to move on, especially with the wheelchair. Not that Karley planned to stay in it forever, having already set his sight on some automail. But that would take time and as he could not help with the pushing, Buccaneer soon lend his hand, giving the crutch into his trusty hands.

When they finally made it, the ceremony had already started.

A priest was talking, Karley not sure if he’d ever have connected some of the words said about Sanders with him. He’d been a resourceful person, saving his jokes for the most appropriate times. He was giving, caring and incredibly tight-lipped. The good things he’d done, they could only ever identify as his, day’s after he’d done them, so quietly he did them.

Looking at Sanders mother, Karley wondered if she knew how he’d died.

* * *

 

She was as rigid again, as she were when they’d first met.

They’d cut off her hair when she first arrived at East City, her whole squads, even though hers was the only head that looked vastly different after they were done. A lot of it had grown back by now, but it was the first thing Buccaneer had noticed when she moved up to him, blonde hair now forming small ringlets, bouncing every now and then. He’d lain in his hospital bed, hadn’t really recognized her at first, expecting her differently. Not in a wheelchair, stubbornly trying to move it herself, the head-nurse trailing behind with a look he hadn’t been able to read.

She’d stopped at his bedside, his right, and Betty had told her that she’d get her in half an hour, if she wanted to or not. Olivier hadn’t spared her a glance, eyes fixed on his arm, his scars, him.

“Didn’t I tell you to come back in one peace?!”

Despite himself he’d laughed.

He’d been in the hospital longer than her, had already started to make peace with the missing limb, as much as possible at least. He’d get automail, paid for by the military, whether he stayed in it or not. Could get the surgery’s done in North City if he wanted to, closer to his home as it was. He held no misconceptions concerning his football-career, but tried to focus on the more positive things, like her sitting next to him again. A psychiatrist, a young woman, talked to him every two days. It was impossible to keep your nightmares hidden in a six-bed-room. Somebody even taught him to wrote with his left hand.

She’d boxed him in the leg with a bandaged hand.

“What the fuck are you laughing about?!”

Her gaze was as smouldering as before, but he saw the shadow now lurking in the back of her eyes. Had seen it in his own, the darkness that spoke of horrible deeds. How she desperately held herself together, tried to keep her own edges from unravelling. He did not know what happened to her, but knew by the two sentences she’d already given to him that day, that she slept just as badly as him.

Her pale hands took the crutch from his big one.

Karley had given it to him, had wanted his hands free so he could at least pray with the family. Feeling ashamed of being unable to stand up, to pay his respects to the man in the coffin.

Buccaneer did not look at her. He was right, yes, but to show that would do nothing but hurt her, which in turn would hurt himself. Literally and metaphorically, because he knew how much she hated the crutch, her injured leg, or the fact the she wasn’t standing on her own two feet at the moment. That she took it from him, silently admitting to being in pain, showed him how much she trusted him to keep his mouth shut.

When he heard her shifting, breathing a bit raggedly, he used his remaining arm to steady her.

Olivier stiffened like the dead boy’s mother did, when the priest said the last words. Breathed deeply once, trying to relax. Touching, skin on skin, was something only Doctor’s and nurse’s had done for quite some time. It felt uncomfortable to her, always expecting a poke or a pinch, and dearly she hoped that she could get used to it again. Never had his touch made her feel like this, but rather left her heart thumping harder than before. She wanted that back. Not that she’d told Buccaneer that, but it was what he wanted, too.

In a brave attempt, Buccaneer felt her leaning into his arm, thought he could feel the goosebumps rise along her skin. She wasn’t very open anymore, with no one. Not that she’d been an open door before, but at least a window had been opened for those willing to try. Saw her struggle with it, because on that first day she’d sat with him, he knew that her heart hadn’t left the battlefields yet. That it was still fighting in Ishval.

When the time came to move back down the small hill, Karley was snatched from them before they could try to bring him down.

Sanders mother pushed his wheelchair, away from the crowd, talking to him. He waved, assuring them that everything was alright and so they started to make their decent. Buccaneer kept his arm where it was and Olivier let him, feeling like her leg was burning yet again, felt the little metal-splinter in her right ribcage, one of the many Buccaneer knew nothing about, poking her with every step.

And he held her upright, pushing down the thought that this was the first time since they were in the same place again that they were touching, truly touching. The memories of what had happened to force them into this position, crutch and arm and goosebumps vivid reminders of the monsters in their minds. How it wasn’t her hand held softly in his, both enjoying the shudders, but rather keeping the other from falling, leaving both of them with a weird feeling.

When he’d gotten her to the foot of the hill, he sat her down faster than she could blink.

“Should I get someone from the hospital?”

It took her a few deep breaths until she could look at him clearly again, pushing down the pain. Saw the lines of worry in his face, the way he stood over her, even though being of towering height not making her feel small for even a second. Wondered, for a moment, how she could ever doubt him and his promises. Then the pain came back.

Through gritted teeth she spoke.

“Just give me a moment.”

He sat down next to her, his gaze burrowing under her skin, close, but not quite touching. Wondered, if she would ever tell him what happened in the desert. What would happen as soon as they were released from the hospital, if they would stay together. If she would tell Sanders mother, who looked at her pain-filled face when she brought Karley back to them, how her son truly died.

Wondered, while pushing Karley back to the hospital, Olivier leaning heavily on the handles of the wheelchair, if there was a future left for any of them. A life worth living.

“A man with one arm, a man in a wheelchair and a woman with crutches walk into a bar…”

Olivier and him rolled their eyes.


	11. Chapter 11

Olivier had to give head-nurse Betty credit, for not straight out beating her up, even though the women looked like she had to physically restrain herself from it.

She knew that she’d overdone it. Should’ve taken the crutch from the very beginning and not when her leg was already hurting like on the day it was injured. At the same time, she knew that she’d resist the crutch the next time too. It went against her pride and her dignity, at least she told herself that. Not that she thought that she deserved the pain.

“My dear…”

The women sounded tired, her usually cheerful features exhausted. For the first time Olivier thought how tiring it had to be to care for so many people. Not that she didn’t know that beforehand, but she wondered if the head-nurse cared about them personally too. If she took their faces home with her.

Deft fingers pried the thighs off of her legs, leaning forward by herself an almost unmanageable task, the splinters in her body prodding and pocking her.

“I know that you’re a very independent woman.”

She was. She even took pride in it. It went so far that she’d felt ashamed, when Betty had brought her the clothes for today, being unable to go to the stores herself. Something from her youth it was, Betty had told her, a dress, knee length with long sleeves, black lace over black fabric. Some kind of flowery pattern, which had looked beautiful and fitting for the occasion. She’d needed help with putting it on and her face had burned red with shame, the only good thing her “roommate” being out in that moment.

And yet, the women currently freeing her wound of its bandages, said the last sentence with an underlying tone she knew all too well: worry. The women next to her tried not to be condescending, just like her worrier in chief, whom she’d learned to distinguish the tone from. She tried to help her.

“That’s not a bad thing, not at all. But you need to take better care of yourself. Let others take care of you too. Helga is telling me that you’re refusing the psychiatrist and the physiotherapist. Of course you have the right to do that, but you’re hurting yourself with that in the long run. You’ll need those hands for the rest of your life, and that mind of yours too. Just now I’m changing your bandages, and dear, it has to hurt like hell, and you’re not telling me when I hurt you.”

It did hurt. Terribly even, but her pride had lodged in her throat already. She knew the wound wasn’t healing well, was reopening time and time again. She’d ditched the wheelchair after the second day of being allowed out of her room. Refused the help and the pain-medication. Wanted to think her thoughts with a clear mind. Wanted the pain to keep her awake at night.

“I’m not telling you how to live your life, or what you should or shouldn’t do. But your bodily strength isn’t increasing like it should, the bags under your eyes grow bigger and darker by the hour. Your leg especially is worsening instead of bettering. I don’t want to you to have a limp for the rest of your life.”

And now Betty was getting more agitated, even though her hands were still cleaning the wound gently, which made Olivier wonder for a moment, how she was even feeling those feather light touches. She wanted to be cross with the words of the women, but found that she couldn’t. That she’d maybe needed the honesty provided.

“You’re proud and I guess someone as proud as you wouldn’t want a cane or a limp for the rest of her life. Especially because you’re strong enough to heal completely, scars here and there of course, but still. You have to understand that your pride is hurting you. Keeping you from healing and leaving that hospital. At this rate I’ll still change your bandages when everybody else is gone. Not that I mind you much, you’re quite refreshing, dear. But I don’t think you’re the type that would want to stay complacent for long stretches of time. That you’d want to get on with life, finish your education, all that jazz.”

She remembered that there was still a live aside from the one now, wondered why she hadn’t wanted to venture out yet. Felt, that she needed those words now. The remembrance that your life didn’t end at twenty-one, war or not.

“And dear, I certainly don’t want to pry into your private live, so forgive me if I guess a little here, but what about Mr. Buccaneer?”

If Olivier hadn’t been squeezing her eyes shut while that words were spoken, she would’ve stared. Probably would’ve blushed too, if here face wasn’t already red from gritting her teeth. Betty was bandaging her wound, applying the finishing touches ‘till it was time to change it again. The silence stretched on a bit, the head-nurse not pushing her for an answer. Knowing that you needed some time to gather your concentration again, to figure out what to say to someone who’d figured you out.

“Can you sit up enough, so that I can pull the dress over your head?”

The kindness in her voice was enough to let Olivier open her eyes again. The blonde moved, carefully, and let Betty help her. The fabric skimming over her skin, slightly pushing against the small bumps in it, made goosebumps rise. Almost inaudibly the head-nurse sighed.

Worried eyes got to Olivier more than worried noises.

“I think there’s another one over one of my ribs.”

She was surprised at the smallness of her voice and immediately pulled herself up inwardly. Remember who you are! But the pain was pulling her down and the truth weighing heavily on her.

Betty moved without hesitation, felling her bare skin, her face going through a several stages of concentration. Then she got the red marker.

“Oh yes. I’ll mark it like the others, but we certainly need to get you scheduled for an operation, those things need out!”

The fuzzy tip of the marker tickled her skin and Olivier slightly moved. An almost-giggle over a horrible thing. She was helped into a gown then and wished for some real clothes silently. She felt exposed in the thin garments, but wasn’t allowed to go shopping outside. No one she trusted with her wardrobe was allowed to either, which had her back in a corner, because she suddenly wanted to not be a burden to Betty anymore.

“I would like something for the pain.”

Again Olivier wondered when her voice had grown so small, picking herself up not having had the desired effect. But she estimated that it would make her feel better, to help her sleep. To make the worry disappear from Betty’s eyes. From his eyes.

The raised eyebrow of the women went uncommented, as did the small smile on her lips. Betty did not consider it a win, was not the kind to care for that, but was happy that she’d helped. She went to get supplies and helped the blonde lay back down. While slowly pushing the medication through the IV, she talked on, softly.

“It would be good if you stayed off of your feet for today. Tomorrow too, please.”

A conspirational look was sent Olivier’s way.

“Miss Hawkeye will be out tomorrow, so how about I sent Mr. Buccaneer over to keep you some company? I’m sure that he can follow the rules of this station. And he could keep you from running off too.”

Now she was thrown a wink and even though she hadn’t had it in her to smile, Olivier’s mouth did a thing. Not a smile, but a thing. Then she did a second new thing, she jumped her own shadow.

“Thank you Ms. Belmont.”

“I told you to call me Betty!”

* * *

 

A week of daily visits and a bag on the foot of her bed. Buccaneer was beaming.

“So, first of all I got you socks. Two packs for one and considering that you had practically none, it seemed a pretty good deal to me.”

Olivier was not in the least surprised that he’d gone with pink. Normal and thick, fuzzy ones, several pairs of each. A printed on star or flower here and there, but everything else was hot pink. She felt one of the bundles he’d dropped in her lap, quite content with the quality she found. The size was right too and colour aside, she had hope that he’d gotten her a presentable wardrobe.

He stared at her with dark eyes, trying to gauge her reaction. When he saw no sign of discontent scurrying over her face, he rummaged through the bag, smiling again. She was presented with two pairs of black pants.

“Big guy, those are missing pockets and zippers, you know?”

He was still beaming, speaking without missing a beat.

“Those are leggings!”

Her raised eyebrow told him everything he needed to know.

“I know, you usually don’t wear those, but I have to admit that shopping pants for others is quite difficult. High, low or hip-rise. Skinny or boot-cut. Boyfriend-cut. What the hell is a boyfriend-cut?”

The question seemed honest enough to her. And she hadn’t specified to him what kind exactly she wanted. Didn’t really know, honestly. She could never decide what she could live with, without trying it on. At least her voice had gotten its edge back over the course of the last week.

“They’re cut like pants for men, but are intended for women.”

Eyebrows almost met his non-existing hairline. Olivier had looked strangely when she’d first seen him after coming back. Sides shorn off, only a somewhat outgrown strip of hair on top of his head. The lengths at the back of his head he’d kept, though, pulled into a ponytail. Had claimed that the heat had been unbearable with a full head of hair. She’d decided that she liked both looks, but was soon somewhat endeared to the fluffy looking, black mohawk.

“Why not buy men ones instead? Or you could have one of mine, if you want to?”

Olivier shook her head at him, the look in her eyes that he associated with amusement. She hadn’t smiled since before the day they said goodbye, so many months back. Her eyes examined the leggings again and he went back to his explanation.

“The women at the store recommended them, size and everything quite difficult. And there’s some kind of stretch-fabric worked in, so they’ll fit over your bandages easily.”

She nodded at him, her mouth doing that thing it sometimes did, ever since he was allowed to sit with her during the day. He didn’t know how Betty had gotten her to stay in her bed, but was glad that she did. She looked a bit better, healthier, and when he’d told her that he was cleared to go on short trips, she’d only taken two days until she asked if he could get her a few things. Buccaneer was positive that some kind of dark magic had to be involved.

Yet, she desperately needed some clothes. The three shirts left were torn, pants non-existent and one pair of socks was too little to live with. Adding to that were the thin hospital-shifts, challenging his concentration to keep his eyes on her face. He hadn’t looked on purpose, but had felt like a perv nonetheless.

Which led him to his next prize. He still felt the gazes directed at him, as soon as he’d entered this particular store. A foreign body, not graced with a female presence that justified his being there. The sports-bras were handed to her without a red tint on his face, but he wasn’t looking her in the eyes either. They’d never gotten there, back then.

“Those were _so_ hard to get. Not because they didn’t have any, there were plenty, but I never knew there was so much choice!”

Olivier was looking at Buccaneer looking at the floor. When she’d told him what she needed yesterday, she hadn’t thought about how difficult some things were to shop for others. Hadn’t even thought for a second about the fact that a man like Buccaneer would be looked at weirdly in a lingerie store.

“I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable.”

His eyes snapped up to hers and she could see a moment of indecision on his face, until it changed into his trademark smile.

“Nah, it was alright. Once I told the cashier that I was shopping for you and that you couldn’t come and handed her the list at least. Your script was girly enough for her to be convinced and since you weren’t there to try things on, she set me up with things anyone can usually wear comfortably. Even got her to hand me neutral colours. I don’t get why everything seems to be pink or baby-blue. They even had one with leopard-spots.”

A black one and a white one she held in her hands, right size and everything. Almost couldn’t wait to put them on and feel dressed again. But she knew and understood his troubles. His disgusted face too, the patterns those designers sometimes came up with were weird sometimes.

“There’s like a thousand different shapes. And in one of those shapes your usual size might fit and not at all in the next one, it’s a hassle, really, even if you can try them on. So don’t worry, you got just the right thing and I even got around the getting-touched-by-the-store-clerk part.”

“They touch you there?!”

He looked at her like a deer in the headlights. Her mouth did the thing again.

“Yes, making sure you got the right size and fit. Its uncomfortable nonetheless.”

Buccaneer shook his head, still not fully believing what he heard. Nobody tried to touch him when he went shopping. How hadn’t he realized that such a simple thing as buying clothes was so much more of a hassle for her? At least he understood now, why she hated Sherry’s monthly shopping-trips so much. He decided to get on with the bags contents, just so he could get the next uncomfortable part over with. It hadn’t stopped at the lingerie store with being presented numerous bras, the workers apparently convinced that he knew what she wore underneath. Not at all.

Olivier found her hands full with several packages of panties. Right size and a wide array of colours, one pack filled with some as red as Buccaneers face.

“Now you look like you’ve been tortured.”

He looked at her like a kicked puppy.

“It was awful. I thought that they’d caught on after the sports-bras, that I wanted practical things and nothing fancy. Still, they went and showed me the most ridiculous stuff! Lace, strings, things that wouldn’t even qualify as clothes to me. Even something with a unicorn on it! They were offended, when I asked them for plain panties!”

“They probably tried to get you to spend as much money as possible. Normally they don’t do that, but they seemingly knew that you had no idea what you were doing.”

No he knew that she was making fun of him, what he requited with a dangerous look. One raised brow told him of its lack of effect. Her tone got a bit less steely, though.

“You did fine up until now Big Guy, don’t worry. What about up top, you got any shirts for me? I can’t walk around in just leggings and a bra, you know?”

After he rummaged a little in that bag of his, she was presented with the fact that Buccaneer had good taste. Long blouses, one red and one white, which would go well with the leggings. Plain tank-tops, grey, white and black. Shirts, plenty and in various colours, her immediate favourite a loose cut shirt in ice-blue, with a single “fuck” embroidered in the front. You had to know your way around a city to get those, frowned upon as they were. A dark-blue cardigan he produced and even a pullover, plain black, but made from very soft thread, which made her wish for cold weather. He even handed her a light jacket, cut like a field-jacket, in a warm olive colour.

When a pair of shoes landed on top of the pile that sat in her lap now, she almost gasped.

“Where did you get those?!”

A pair of trainers, white soles, black cloth, white laces. She had a pair exactly like that, in a box somewhere in Sherry’s home, packed together with her other clothes.

“Second-hand shop. Got the Jacket and some of the shirts from there, too. They looked just like yours, were in good shape and you only have that gritty pair of boots here, so I thought, why not?”

Buccaneer could have said something about women and shoes. It would have been inappropriate and tasteless, but he knew she would take it as the joke it was. He kept himself from it though, knowing what those shoes meant, or rather their original counterpart. She’d watched them through the shop-window as a teen, she’d told him. Her mother pulled her past them, time and time again. “Not a shoe for a lady!” she’d said. That had gone on for months and even when she went into the city alone, escaping the watchdogs, she had always been caught before being able to get them. Only when she’d gone with her father once, again stopping to look, just to find her hands filled with the exact pair half an hour later, the shoes got their meaning.

Smiling her father had told her mother of the “cool shoes” he’d gifted his daughter with. Endured the screaming and anger with a calm face. The shoes became a sign of rebellion. Of father and daughter banding together, breaking the establishment: shoe by shoe.

Never was the mouth thing as strong as it was now.

“Thank you.”

She hadn’t sounded so sincere, since the day she told him that it was okay if he just said the names and she wrote them down. That it wasn’t cheating. Maybe a pair of shoes was a weird place to start with being honest and sincere with the other again, but it was easier than blood on sand and nightmares. They’d get to that though, Buccaneer was sure. Had to be.

“Ah, it was nothing. But I’ve got something else, too.”

Olivier was presented with a book; she’d never thought to see published. It had been so many years since the last.

“I honestly thought he’d died.”

She presented the line so drily, Buccaneer started to laugh loudly. They both had waited for the book to come out, even though they lost sight of that, with the war and everything else know. It had been a nice coincidence.

“I was at the post-office and walking out from it, there’s that book-store on the other side of the street. I wanted to get a newspaper and thought that you’d like something to read, to help you pass the time. I come in and there’s a stack on the table, bunch of people packed around it. I reached over them and here we are.”

Olivier turned the book around in her hands, reading the annotation. It was thoughtful of him. Very much so, especially when she thought about the long nights. Since Hawkeye was released from the hospital, she had no one to talk to when night fell. Her sketch pad was almost full, her pencils worn down to stumps. Not that it had been especially easy to draw, once the nurse figured out what she did when she was supposed to sleep and turned the lights off manually.

“You remember when he said he’d kill off a character for every person who asked him when it would be done?”

Buccaneer stopped rummaging in the back and his mouth formed a crocked grin.

“Better hold the book straight then, we wouldn’t want the blood to pour out!”

Before the laugh could bubble up her throat, the door opened and night-nurse Hanna stuck her head in.

“Ten more minutes you two, then Mr. Buccaneer has to go. I still need to change the bandages Miss Armstrong, and get you ready for tomorrows procedure.”

“We’ll wrap it up.”

The door was shut and immediately Buccaneers face presented her with his most common emotion: Worry.

“What will be done tomorrow? Will they operate?”

“There’s nothing to operate on my leg.”

“New medicine?”

“No, they’ll…”

“Maggots!”

“Maggots?”

“Sometimes they put Maggots in wounds, to help them with healing.”

Buccaneer knew when to stop and her face was clearly telling him to reign himself in. Her brows had drawn together; her gaze spoke of murderous intent. He coughed.

“Sorry, what were you saying?”

She sighed.

“They’ll put some kind of sleeve over the wound tomorrow, to put pressure on it, so it’ll look like a leg when it’s healed. It’ll stiffen the leg for some time, so I won’t be able to escape the crutches, but if everything goes well, I can leave the hospital soon. And the wounds closed up almost completely, so fuck off with your maggots!”

His grin should’ve infatuated her more, but she knew it was because he was happy for her. She knew that he’d planned for his automail to be done in North City. That he wanted to visit his family once everything was scheduled and then he’d plan how his life would go on. That he could’ve been released three weeks ago, but was faking further need for hospitalization with the head-nurse. The hospital wasn’t particularly full anymore, so she could somewhat life with that. But she knew what he was waiting for. Or rather, whom.

Before she could say something, do anything more than glower at him, letters were shoved into her hands.

“There was quite a lot for you, seems like the military-service finally delivered those letters they had since the beginning of the war.”

Sherry, the people from the flower-shop, the people from the restaurant. A few from Alex and her siblings. One from her dad. If she were able too, she’d have tackle-hugged him.

“The newest one from Sherry is addressed at the both of us.”

Olivier pulled it out of the pile and turned it in her hands.

“Weird, the shipping address is Resembool.”

She tore the letter open and read important parts aloud. They’d trade it later on anyways.

“She wants us to come to her family. She’ll be there too, took over the post of the local doctor apparently.”

He grinned again and for a second it made her forget her leg, her nightmares and her guilt.

“Probably just wants to check our wounds, poke and prod a little. Then she’ll say five medical terms and act like everything important is said.”

“She writes that we can relax a little there and get some of our stuff. Her parents would get us from Central, if we want them too.”

“I bet there’s something behind this, with Sherry there always is.”

They locked eyes and to both it became clear, that the time for making decisions was nearing. Of deciding what to do. Even though a visit in a little, violently of animals smelling village, would be a nice break of pace. An opportunity to talk in peace. Without night-nurse Hanna knocking impatiently on the door.

Olivier felt her mouth do the thing again, when Buccaneer got up, grumbling about people with awful timing. He stood in the door, Hanna already at her bed-side, nodding at her with a look she could not read.

“Good Night Liv.”

“Good Night Big Guy.”

* * *

 

“So Alex is alright?”

The plaza was packed with people and she couldn’t deny that it was making her anxious. Too many to oversee, moving in patterns too random to understand. It put her on edge and yet she was touched, that he tried to help her focus on something else.

“Physically yes. In the letter he sounded like himself, too, but I don’t know. On the phone it seemed like something was off., like there’s something he’s not saying. There had to be a reason for him to get send home earlier, but I couldn’t get him to spill it.”

The train-ride to Central had almost been too much at first. People scurrying all over, taking up the seats opposite of them. Total strangers, all around her. The sound of the train starting, had made her clutch the seat and close her eyes. The old woman opposite of her had kindly asked if she needed something against stomach-sickness.

“Well, not to make you worry more, but when I saw him in the main camp, he looked horrible. No injuries, but bags under his eyes and the look of someone who’d seen more than he should. And when the news that he refused to kill more made the rounds. It wasn’t pretty.”

When she’d rung up Alex, Buccaneer had blocked the entrance of the phone-both. Their duffle-bags at his feet, her crutches in his hand. Some people stared at him, this one-armed men standing in front of a phone-booth with a slight woman in it, but walked on faster when they’d caught his glowering gaze. The barrier had made her feel safe, but also made her realise that everything those last four days had happened too fast.

They’d put some kind of white cast over her leg, tight and smooth, putting pressure on her burns. It would help them heal with less scarring, they’d said, but she’d been busy with biting back screams of agony. She was to get it cleaned daily and had been thankful for the Central nurse having been as gentle as possible. Only a day after the cast was in place, she was free to leave the hospital. Her and Buccaneer had no real time to talk about what to do and decided to go with Sherry’s invitation. And only a day later, after seeing Karley board a train in the direction of Rush Valley, they’d boarded the train to Central.

“He’s only seventeen. Just the thought that a seventeen year-old would be send to fight in a war…”

Olivier shook her head, unbelieving. He thought that she looked quite well, leggings and blouse, sneakers and jacket. Betty had evened out her hair before they’d left the hospital and the wavy blond tresses were almost reaching her shoulders by now. And yet, she was still much too thin, the bags under her eyes still easy to spot. And when he thought about it, them sitting at the foot of a statue, wasn’t the smartest decision either. Not with so many people around them.

“It’s crazy. State Alchemist or not, a battlefield is something so different from the practical training they got. If they even got any.”

She was happy that he wasn’t deterred by the people around them, but she guessed he was used to it more, as he’d been allowed to leave the hospital quite often. And still she was worried as they lapsed into silence again, as he hadn’t said anything yet, about their visit in the administration of Central University. She had gotten her papers ready, had gotten her degree handed over and could continue her study’s at another university if she wanted to. He’d lost his scholarship. He had no degrees now, no study’s he could continue. The coach had come in when he’d heard of Buccaneers being there. He’d looked pitying upon him, upon the stumn, and she knew that he couldn’t use that right now.

“I’ve still got some metal-pieces in my body.”

His fast turning head confirmed that he’d heard her whispered confession. He’d talked with the psychiatrist, would have surgeries and rehabilitation. Approximately three years. It felt wrong not to be honest with him, not when he worried so much about her. Before he could say, ask something, she spoke up again.

“A bomb or grenade exploded close by. The splinters couldn’t be taken out on the battlefield and only some in my hands were taken out in one of the camps. Betty tried to get me a surgery-date in Eastern, but they said they had a full schedule. She said that I could get it done in North City Public Hospital, that there is a Surgeon specialized in that.”

It shook him what she said, pulled all of his mind away from his gloomy thoughts. She hadn’t told him a thing yet, nothing about what had happened to her in the desert. Everything he knew he had from Karley and even that had been scantly little. And now she was opening up to him, in the middle of a crowd that scared her. And before he looked into her eyes, he thought that maybe she pitied him too, the man with the missing arm and lost perspective. That she shared her wounds, so that his would pale in comparison. But when he met her gaze, the uncertainty left him.

Her legs stretched out over the steps, crutches close by. The spring breeze ruffled her hair and her eyes spoke of trust and honesty. Of a little bit of fear, too. But he understood that he’d just been invited and he took action before she could think twice.

His hand around hers felt like she remembered it and for a moment she wondered why anything was ever strange between them. And when her heart lurched then, in the way she’d missed so much, she knew that they’d made a step. Just a small one, but in the right direction nonetheless.

His voice sounded raspy all of a sudden.

“So, will you get the surgery done in North City?”

Before she could answer, a car-door banged loudly.

Before they could get up, Sherry was hugging them both.


	12. Chapter 12

“But you’re not a full-fledged doctor yet?”

Buccaneer was bend at an odd angle, the car too small for him to sit straight in. Nowhere he’d fit properly, neither in the front seat, nor in the back. In the end he’d given up, sitting himself down in the backseat, next to Armstrong. He’d scooted around a bit, finally finding an awkward but manageable position for their ride back to Sherry’s hometown.

“Officially not, no. I’ll have to take a few exams at the end of the semester, to prove that I know the technicalities. If I pass them though, I’ll be official and can specialize then, if I want to. My needed practical experience counts as served and as the doc at home hadn’t come back, I’d been instituted as her substitute.”

Sherry was riding shotgun, her father relying on his daughter to find his way around Central City. And driven around in the town they had, as Sherry had made list told of a bunch of things Buccaneer and Armstrong had to take care of, before they could leave it behind.

“Did you learn there how to get a change-of-address order trough, even though no official record has been changed?”

Olivier had watched with hidden awe, as her friend had talked the post office employee into sending Buccaneer’s and her letters to Sherry’s home address. She herself was a force to reckoned with, she knew as much, but officials of any kind were a hard nut to crack in Amestris.

“Let’s just say that I get now, what works with those weasels and what doesn’t.”

“You shouldn’t call them that Pumpkin, they’re just doing their jobs.”

Wilbur Althea was a sensible man; Olivier knew that. Since she shared school with Sherry, she’d spent at least one week of every holyday at the Althea-household. It had always been a good time, filled with fun, conversation, food and enough space to breathe. The absence of her mother had made the last point likely, the fact that Sherry had four sisters, two younger and two older, had made it unlikely again. And yet, it had all worked out.

“Well, I’m not saying that they don’t, but you have to admit that the bureaucracy often makes things more complicated than necessary. Especially in this case. Should they rent a flat first? Or should we wait three weeks at the General Family Administration Office to officially report their stay with our family?”

The man’s laugh was a quiet one, closer to a chuckle.

“Just like your Mother, you are.”

Sherry wondered, if her mother would do a double-take too, upon seeing Olivier. She’d thinned almost unbearably, looked haggard and tired, the limp and crutch not helping the picture. And she had seen Buccaneer only on pictures before, but would she understand that this was the smiling muscle-man in them? He seemed so glum, had lost almost all of his muscle, looking like a thin, tall stick, as much as it was possible with his build. And the missing arm; Sherry herself could hardly bear thinking about how it must feel for him.

The three of them had exchanged a few letters since coming back from the front, but both of them held their cards close, not letting her in. She hoped that they would open up somewhat while they stayed with her, would relax a little, maybe gain a bit of weight again. Tell her what had changed, because she could swear that she saw them holding hands on those steps they sat on.

“It’s all right with you two, if we stop at my office first, right?”

She did not have to turn around, to know that looks were exchanged in the backseat and eyebrows raised. Buccaneer was the first done with rolling his eyes.

“If you must, knock yourself out. But as it’s question-time: What the heck did you do at the Supreme Command of the Army?”

“I convinced them to hand me a stack of Health-impairment-reparation-forms. You need to hand one to your Doctor, if something concerning your in the service acquired wounds needs to be done, or you’ll have to pay upfront. You get the money back, but that takes an eternity. That way I’m prepared and you now are too.”

Her father’s snort confirmed her suspicion of another exchanged look. Now Olivier piped up.

“And what about your visit to the Amestrian Education Authority?”

Inwardly Sherry sighed. Maybe she should have done those visits before picking them up. Maybe she would’ve caught them kissing then.

“Got you brochures of all the Universities offering Engineering-Classes. I’ll accept nothing less than a Master with summa cum laude from you.”

Olivier’s angry tirade was drowned out by Buccaneers laughter, which earned him a smack and a “Traitor!”. They lapsed into silence after that, sometimes talking about titbits of nonsense, when nearing Sherry’s hometown, commenting on the smell. Getting out of the car in front of Sherry’s office, her father said his temporary goodbyes with the truest words ever spoken.

“You’ll get used to it.”

* * *

 

Sherry had snatched Olivier first, after treating an old Lady and the shepherd’s son, who had waited in her office already, when she came in.

“Does your leg hurt constantly, or only at certain times, or in certain situations?”

She’d never seen Sherry truly in action before, not as a Doctor, and was somewhat taken aback at how professional she seemed all of a sudden. Maybe she felt like that because she’d seen Sherry puke on herself before, or because they’d shared a bathroom at the boarding school and you could keep nothing a secret there, but she had to accept that her best friend had changed.

“Usually after a bandage-change, or if I stay on my feet for too long. Else, only when I bump into things.”

Her friends head bopped at her answer and inspected her leg some more. She’d taken off the cast and the bandages, revealing the reddish flesh underneath. Olivier herself thought, that it started to look like a leg again, as she could finally find where her knee was supposed to be, but wanted to hear Sherry’s professional opinion.

“They did it well, I have to admit that. Really well even, but it still looks so different from the burns on your hands and your side. I mean, yes of course, this is a very extensive burn and I can even tell you from where it started, but the small burns you got with the explosion, look usual, your leg does… not.”

The first response team had known what had happened, they’d seen after all, or had been there and had connected the dots. While she’d writhed in a sandy cot with a massive infection, another Doctor she hadn’t known had even visited her, inspecting the wound with a mixture of disgust and interest. Later she’d asked and some loose-lipped nurse had let slip, that the chances to see those burns on living people were almost non-existent. That the man would be glad for being able to compare now. The nurse had been gone the next day and she’d been advised to not run around telling what happened. And she hadn’t, though not because the military asked her, they could babble all they want, but because she knew that it hadn’t been intentional.

But silence had never deterred Sherry.

“That you must have come in contact with some kind of fire accelerant is clear, it is simply too big of a burn for you not to, but the flame must have been hotter than usual, or you burned for several minutes. And I know, you’re stubborn and secretive and all that jazz, but it would be way easier if you’d just tell me.”

To Sherry’s and her own surprise, she did. She left Sanders out, that she’d dragged him with her, while he wheezed his last words into her soul. Left out how Mustang had sat at her bedside afterwards, holding her hand, something he’d last done when she’d been ten and he’d been told that his parents had died. Left out that she indeed wondered what Buccaneer would think of the scars, because she already knew for herself, that he was the only one for her who’s opinion counted. Left out her fear of those scars, changing his opinion.

When she finished her tale, Sherry looked taken aback. She figured she should explain, suddenly hyperaware of how little explanation she offered to anything.

“I know, it’s a lot to take in and I….”

She was cut off by her friend, quietly fuming with anger.

“They sent you out there for nothing. Sent thousand out there to die senselessly while killing hundreds of thousands of others.”

Like a hook Olivier felt like she was finally pulled back into the real world, lingering on the edge of something else before. Sherry’s anger was cold, radiating from her in waves. There was no indecision left in her form, no naivety. If had felt like her life since coming back had been a bad dream, little specks of good littered here and there. But now Olivier understood, that she had to come back to reality, because there was something seriously wrong with it. She could mellow in self-pity when she was dead, there was a bigger picture to keep an eye on.

“Everything you said before it all started was true. The whole thing was rigged from the start. While I was there, it occurred to me that many of the injuries I saw were strange, unlikely. So I kept my eyes open, talked with people and many got commands like you did. Suicide-missions for scrap-metal. Holding a trench while surrounded by enemies. Weird wounds on our side, inflicted by alchemy.”

Sherry’s face was contorted, forehead drawn into crinkles, brows knitting together, lips a thin line. And Olivier was sure that she mirrored that expression, taking in the information, angry at herself for foregoing newspapers for such a long time.

“So you think there’s a pattern? That we did not only were sent out there to fight the Ishvalans, but also to be greatly diminished in number? I get that the military would certainly like certain minorities gone, but looking at the whole of it the question is, what for?”

Olivier almost yelped when Sherry suddenly touched an ointment to her leg and started to bandage it. It did not hurt and her friend was very careful, but she’d not expected it in the slightest. All the while Sherry seemed to deflate and calm down.

“That, I don’t know. That’s the real problem. But any case I can track back to our own government, well, it’s a start.”

The cast being strapped on was the worst part and when Olivier opened her tightly squeezed shut eyes again, Sherry was smiling down at her, already busy with pulling the leggings up over it.

“Torso next, or do you need a break?”

Sherry watched as Olivier nodded and stood up. She wanted to say something, when the blonde pulled her white blouse over her head in a series of seemingly overcomplicated movements. And then she saw the red circles and the scars. Instead of getting angry again, she felt like she’d been punched in the gut. East City Military Hospital had a damn good reputation. For them to let someone leave with those…

“God, Livvie, it really seems like someone wants you to suffer. Those were the splinters you wrote about, right? Why haven’t they taken them out?”

Casually Olivier sat down again, even though Sherry could see that some of the splinters had to hurt her. The blonde accepted her wandering and feeling hands with indifference, as she was indeed tired of being poked and prodded, but glad that it was at least someone she trusted completely.

“The head-nurse tried several times to get me on the surgeons’ schedule, but he always said that he doesn’t have the time. So I just had to live with it.”

“Knowing you I’d have expected the surgeon to do it right away. I mean, it’s not like you allow people to keep you waiting. Or was it really that packed?”

Sherry knew that Liv would never get adamant in a hospital, if there was somewhere there who needed it more, but she would be careful not to get overlooked either. And the hospitals had emptied considerably by now…

The awaited answer came almost pressed, with expressions she’d never have associated with Olivier: Fear, resignation, guilt.

“It was really packed at first and I thought that I’d just wait my turn. But when the hallways became emptier and the nurses tried to get me a surgery-date and that didn’t work... I just didn’t have it in me to start a ruckus. I was… tired.”

When Olivier Mira Armstrong didn’t look you in the eye, something was seriously wrong. Sherry understood, both, Doc Knox and the Rockbells having educated her not only on the physical, but on the emotional and psychological wounds an experience like that caused. Knew, through several letters from Buccaneer, and several blank spaces in Liv’s, that she refused professional help. Sherry knew that she could only give professional advice, but anything else was helping a friend, no therapy session. As a professional she knew that butting in head first was a bad idea. But she also knew how her best friend worked and that she preferred a direct approach.

“Liv, I know that you’ve seen some horrible things. I’ve heard about Karley and Sanders…”

She was looking at her now, blue eyes boring into her own. It was an unnerving and unsettling gaze and Sherry remembered the comments others had uttered under their breath. Cold. Scary. _Icy_. But there was something in it that let her speak on, calm and quiet.

“…a term often associated with this is survivor’s guilt. You wonder why you survived, while others had to die. People who suffer from this often try to inflict damage onto themselves, because it alleviates the guild they feel to an extent. Sometimes they achieve that simply by doing nothing, by giving up their fight. Many feel like they’re trapped in a bubble, feeling too weak to escape on their own and needing help to get out of it. It often goes hand in hand with PTSD.”

Her friend wasn’t about to cry, just started at her with an expression she couldn’t read, but had seen a hundred times already. Olivier spoke as if voicing a fact.

“Buccaneer babbled, didn’t he?”

It was followed by a sigh and raised eyebrows, which gave Sherry at least a small measure of comfort. Olivier at least knew of her own incapability to adequately voice her emotions. Her inability to ask for help if she needed it. But she knew that someone was keeping a watchful eye on her. That she could go to him if she decided she was ready. And if she hurt herself too much, Buccaneer would try to help her, if she wanted to or not.

“You’re the most important thing in his live, you know that, right?”

Maybe Liv yelped because of what she just said, or because she’d just pocked one of the bumps over her rips, but Sherry was shot a glare nevertheless. The hard-to-read expression on the blonde’s face was replaced by a look Sherry knew all too well: irritation.

“Wasn’t there a pact once, that you keep out of our private life’s?”

“Wasn’t there a pinkie-promise once, that we’d tell each other everything?”

Olivier grunted in disapproval. Sherry grinned, knowing that she could now ask away.

“I’ve seen you holding hands in Central.”

Sherry expected a passive-aggressive answer. But not the one she got.

“Maybe we’ve even kissed, already.”

The corners of Olivier’s mouth twitched and Sherry knew that she had to look stupid as hell right now. She forced her mouth too close and set her hands to work again. When that only helped partly, she remembered that breathing was quite vital for survival.

She had a thousand questions in mind at once, carefully crafted rebuttals that would quell her thirst for information. Instead, just one word came out.

“How?!”

Another yelp and glare, as she found the second sensitive bump. Not without irritation in her voice Olivier spoke.

“On the day before we were to board the train, before… everything. You and Miles were already gone and we both felt alone in our rooms. So I went over to him and we talked about some things.”

“And then you kissed?”

Olivier nodded and Sherry could barely contain her glee. She had a thousand questions more now, but the look on Liv’s face helped her focus.

“And it was good, right?”

Again Olivier nodded and, after a short bout of silence, jumped her shadow.

“It’s just, we haven’t really talked since then. There was, is a lot on our plates right now and…”

“I get it Livvie, really. I’ve watched you and him since we started college. He isn’t Thomas Steinfield or Lisa Erwin to you, but way, way more. This is between you and him and knowing the two of you, you’ll sort it out. You don’t even have to clear up everything at once. Start with the basics, that you still want him in your life. Believe me, it’ll make everything easier.”

A smile was a rare thing from Olivier and Sherry relished at the sight of it.

“Thanks Sherry.”

The silence stretched on comfortably between the two, Olivier thinking and Sherry pocking and prodding some more. At least until she hit a deeply buried splinter in the blonde’s left side. This almost-scream was filed under yelp yet again.

“The circled ones are deep-seated; the crosses close to the surface?”

Sherry looked up in time to see Olivier nod.

“The nurses wanted a way to easily tell them apart. Though I have to admit that the one’s close to the surface forming visible bumps, would’ve been hint enough.”

“Well, you’ve got a lot of additional scars in the area, so I think they just wanted to make sure that nobody digs around in thick scar-tissue, that happens to look suspiciously like a bump.”

After a bit of digging around, Sherry found the skin-friendly pen and marked the newest addition. Then she spoke on, blocking out the squirming of Olivier, professionalism creeping into her voice.

“For the deep ones you’ll need to see a specialist. You’ll most likely have to be completely knocked out for them and I can’t do this here. And neither am I proficient enough at tissue-repair for the scars to be as invisible as possible, if I can be honest with you. I can take those over your ribs out though. They show small signs of a coming infection and already your body build a sack around them, so they’d be fairly easy to get out. Some local anaesthesia would be needed and we’d have to set a date, but not much more. Only if you want to, of course.”

For a moment Olivier’s forehead crinkled in thought, then she nodded.

“I’d be happy if you could take them out, they’re quite a hindrance. What do you think of the rest?”

“Well, your leg is coming along, I think if you keep the cast on and use the crutch, you’ll make a full recovery. How it’ll look, say, in a year, is hard to tell though. The long scar on your back is, well, a scar. The wound reopened to often and honestly, if you get the chance sue the asshole that made you work with it. For corrective surgery at the technical standards of today it’s too big, so I fear you’ll just have to live with it for now. But on the positive side, and that counts for all your small scars too, you’re pretty pale and the scars will turn pale to given some time, so you’ll be barely able to see them. Like those on your hands, the small incisions left over from the splinter-removal. Like little specs of ice.”

Sherry watched as Olivier looked at her hands, with a look that made you think she was far away right now. Too late Sherry understood that the blonde was talking to herself, felt like an intruder all of a sudden, sitting too close not to hear the murmured words, yet not far away to have imagined them.

“Snowflakes he called them.”

* * *

 

He saw the weird look on Sherry’s face, when Olivier didn’t move out of the room, instead searching for a chair. The questioning looks of her changed, when he shrugged and told her that Armstrong was often there when they’d changed his bandages.

And while Sherry now looked like Christmas had come early and Olivier looked indifferent, he pulled his shirt over his head awkwardly. Immediately the pocking and prodding began.

“Huh, now that’s a well done skin-transplant if I’ve ever seen one. Leg or bum?”

She pried off the bandages around the stump while asking, the strip of skin on his ribcage, right under the stump, having really healed well. It still looked awfully strange to him though, somewhat out of place.

“Leg. The Doc said that it heals better that way and that sittings easier, too.”

“Well, he’s right about that. It’s normal that it looks like it does right now and you’ll always see that it is there, but it’ll fade a lot and become less noticeable.”

Buccaneer didn’t answer, but shrugged and searched for Olivier’s gaze. She’d sat through his bandage-changes for weeks, had never flinched or looked green in the face. He’d once caved in to his insecurities and asked her what people would make of the scars. She’d told him that people who cared about him, wouldn’t care about those.

Catching her gaze now, she seemed as cool with his wounds as always, even though she was covertly pointing at Sherry’s back. He followed it and found the person in question staring at him.

“With me again, Bucky? Good, because I was just about to tell you that your stump is really well healed, too. It was done awfully well for a field-operation, especially when you consider that it was blasted off and not cut. Your burns from the blast healed well, even though we should keep them bandaged a bit longer, but I’m positive that they’ll be almost invisible given some time. You wrote that you wanted to get automail?”

“Yeah. The Docs said that the military would cover the costs, as the wound was acquired in the line of duty. And if I want to do anything more than a desk job, I’ll need both arms working, I think.”

He saw that Olivier was looking at him through the room. Noticed that it was the strange kind of gaze, the one you couldn’t read well. Made a mental note to just snatch her one day and ask her about it, because if anybody’s opinion was important to him, it was hers.

“If you want to, I’d say go for it. But have in mind that it takes a hell of a long time till your used to it and that it hurts a lot. I’m no expert on automail, but I think they’ll start implementing it as high as your shoulder, so that they can fix it properly to your body. They’ll literally bolt it to your collarbone.”

Behind Sherry’s back Olivier cringed.

“But if anybody can get through this, it’s you. The recovery-period can be frustrating I heard, but seeing as you love to exercise and love a challenge even more, you’ll do well. They had you do physiotherapy with your left hand, right? Taught you writing with it and stuff?”

“They’ve given me a really big pen, if you mean that. And a few exercises, but it was Armstrong that made me do them. Threatened to hit me if I don’t.”

His sly grin was met with Olivier shrugging at Sherry’s weird look.

“No point denying it.”

Sherry’s eyebrows journeyed over her entire forehead, meeting with her hairline, before she wordlessly started to bandage Buccaneers wounds again. And only after several minutes of silence she spoke up again.

“Seeing as you healed well, I can clear you for mild exercises. And both of you need to eat more, you both look like a dedicated gust of wind could carry you away. I think my mom made stew for today.”

Suddenly Buccaneer had to make a conscious effort not to drown in watering mouth.

“So put on your jackets, I guess she can’t wait to bone-crushingly hug you.”

And before he was done helping Olivier with putting her jacket on, or he could even _get_ his, they both were suddenly again enveloped in Sherry’s arms. Her voice was muffled by Olivier’s shoulder.

“It’s good to have you two back.”


	13. Chapter 13

Life at the Althea-Household calmed, after the first hectic day.

Hugging, hand-shaking and eating immeasurable amounts of stew took place, as did showing their guests to their rooms, pulling at the weird thing sticking out of Olivier’s duffle bag just to discover a sharp sword and Buccaneer pulling out his old uniform, scattering at least four pounds of sand everywhere. Sherry’s youngest Sister, Alma, seized Buccaneer up with a fierce gaze, while hugging Olivier and only a few hours later, the trio the last ones left in the living room, Sherry could explain that Alma was in that phase of puberty, where you hated almost everybody.

Buccaneer had asked her if it was the phase Armstrong never grew out of, just to discover that the blonde’s crutches reach was longer than he’d anticipated. They’d went to bed after that, Olivier sleeping in Sherry’s room, Buccaneer getting the guest room.

From sunrise to sunset everything was rather normal, Sherry going to work, Buccaneer and Armstrong training, eating and relaxing. After four days Armstrong was ridded of the splinters over her ribs, Sherry’s mother having prepared a decorative jar for them beforehand. When Armstrong inquired why, the tall, dark haired and proud woman told her that she seemed the type to collect them. Wordlessly the cleaned splinters were put in the jar then, no further discussion as to why that assumption was right, necessary.

Buccaneer and Armstrong helped in and around the house, the latter insisting to help with the shopping too, walking around on her crutches at a speed Buccaneer called almost-breakneck. Otherwise they read books, talked exclusively about non-life-changing things and tried to get their unused energy out of their system. Sherry’s father supplied some small weights for Buccaneer to train with, which one of Sherry’s older sisters had left there when she moved out. They were annexed by Armstrong as soon as she found out, which led to a we share-and-I-wont-tell-Sherry-pact. They even got reacquainted with their old stuff from their dorm rooms, Armstrong digging gleefully threw her boxes in search for a sketchbook with room and fresh pencils, while Buccaneer was just happy to have his sweatpants back.

When you saw the trio by day, you could’ve thought that everything was alright.

The nights were harder though.

Miss Althea had been overjoyed to have her daughter back and even though she had anticipated that not everything would magically be fine, the night terrors were worse than she’d thought. Sherry woke up screaming or crying more than once and several times she even had to be woken up, not waking on her own. It got better over time, since she started talking with Miss Tamin once a week, who was the closest thing to a psychiatrist they had around here, but Miss Althea knew that it would remain an issue for quite a long time, probably for her whole life.

Yet, she’d not hesitated when Sherry asked if Buccaneer and Olivier could stay with them. They were surely enduring the same things as her daughter and it could’ve ruined some of her daughter’s progress on the matter, but she couldn’t even think of saying no. Olivier had stayed with them for some time at almost every school holyday and she’d always been happy to have the girl. Her parents were a chore; a hospital was no place to stay in forever and she had nowhere else to go. She was polite, helpful and thought before speaking. Also, Sherry missed her. She’d thought a bit longer on Buccaneer though. She only knew him from pictures and her daughter’s tales and even though he seemed very nice, you grew cautious when you had five daughters, your youngest being a teen and easy to impress. But after a set of pleading eyes looked at her, she’d said yes nonetheless.

Her fears had been for nothing though. William Buccaneer was a very polite young man, who’d apparently been taught manners early on. He did look different from the pictures she knew, but as she hadn’t known him beforehand, it hadn’t worried her as much. He shook her hand, introduced himself and told her that if she needed anything done around the house, she’d just have to ask. When he stepped aside and Olivier behind him became visible, that was the moment when she started to pale. The girl was thin as a stick, standing on her crutches, one leg thick with what she’d later learn was a cast. The worst were her eyes though, usually full of defiance, now looking almost defeated. She’d hugged her, counting ribs, and then got them something to eat.

Buccaneer and Olivier seemed perfectly fine by day, doing chores around the house and being nothing but helpful. Eating, talking, reading and going for short walks, curiously always together. At night, they were worse than Sherry had been on her worst days.

The young man spoke in his sleep, half-loud, occasionally screaming. It seemed to wake himself up, as she never had to step in and wake him up, but she was sure that this wasn’t really a comfort for Buccaneer. After the loud nights, as she came to call them in her head, he seemed shaken and tired. The day’s following, he would often go for a walk with Olivier, but she honestly doubted that they spoke about anything that happened at night. They did not seem ready yet. She knew though, that Buccaneer knew that he had a serious problem. Every two days he washed his sheets, the cold sweat soaking them thoroughly. He did not ask her for help, but she did it anyway and when they put the sheets on the line in the second week of their stay, he asked her for the name and address of Miss Tamin. It was the only place in town he went alone.

With Olivier, it was an entirely different case though. She seemed to rather not sleep at all. They all usually went to bed at roughly the same time, the girls reading or talking before going to sleep. Through nightly trips to the bathroom though, she’d soon learned that Olivier simply waited, ‘till Sherry closed her eyes. The girl read at night, and when that got too boring, she migrated to the kitchen with her sketchbooks and supplies. She drew, painted and coloured until she fell asleep through sheer exhaustion. Often, she’d watched the girl from the kitchen-door. Looking at her twitch in her sleep, whispering inaudible things, hands and face smeared with whatever material she’d previously used. When the morning dawned, she’d taken to waking the girl up and could not help herself but look at the picture produced in the night. Her technical skill was undeniable, as was the fact that the pictures provoked emotion. Scenes from the war, faces, blood, gore and large expanses of sand. Buildings, forlorn eyes and, the best and worst of them all, a young boy, screaming in agony and fear. The pictures horrified her, but also made clear what had to go on in Olivier’s head. When she woke her, the girl acted indifferent, but it was out of the question that she wanted anybody to see those pictures.

She did not tell Buccaneer or Sherry what went on at night. Did not ask Olivier about it, because if it came down to it, it was none of her business, though that never had stopped her. The blonde always put her stuff away and cleaned up behind her, took a morning-shower and acted like she slept more than three hours a night. If she’d want to talk about it, Sherry’s mother doubted it would be with her, but rather Buccaneer or Sherry.

Yet, she hoped for all their sakes that this day would come sooner rather than later.

* * *

 

“So, you heard nothing new?”

A sigh.

“No Sherry.”

The darkness in the room did nothing to hide a pair of eyes prying into the vague shape of the only other person in the room.

“And you know for sure that Bucky went to the post office today?”

“I hobbled along with him, stood next to him while he spoke with Wiley and carried the letters that came, in my backpack.”

A huff, followed by a short silence.

“So, you call him Wiley?”

It was hard to tell in the dark, but it sounded suspiciously like a pillow hit a face.

“I call him Wiley, because that’s what written on his name-tag. I know no other name and he hasn’t introduced himself to me.”

A grunt.

“That’s rude.”

“A name-tag is made to forego the whole introduction-thing and therefore not rude.”

“So, you call Buccaneer Buccaneer, because he never introduced himself to you properly?”

You could feel the grin through the darkness.

“I call Buccaneer by his name. I thought that’s the normal way to do it?”

“Well, I think he wouldn’t mind you using his first name. Or a pet name.”

Again, a sigh, deeper than the last one.

“Sherry, I don’t really do pet names.”

“You sometimes call him big guy.”

“That’s no pet name.”

“It is!”

“Sherry, I won’t say now, what you want me to say now!”

Silence, so long that one could almost think that sleep had finally graced the dark room. Then, the groaning of a mattress, one of the shapes propping themselves up on one elbow.

“What’s wrong Sherry?”

Sighing, grunting and a hiccup at the same time.

“I haven’t seen Javed in so long. I miss him so much and I know that is sound childish right now, but I really wish that all of this would never have happened!”

It was like a flood breaking lose and though one could hear what was going on, darkness was a fine concealer for hot, wet tears.

Calmly, the other side of the room reacted to it.

“You mean the war, or you and him?”

For a second the flood was stopped, only to start stronger and harder than before. The propped-up shape stood up and hobbled over to the other side of the room. Carefully she sat first on the side of the bed, swinging her leg into it and laying down, pulling the other close. Ready to reap what she sowed with her loaded question.

The sound of crying filled the air, of softs “it’s alrights” and “shhhs”. And when the sobbing subsided a little, words were spoken through hiccups.

“I don’t know! I really don’t know! The thought to never have met him is so awful, so wrong, but…”

The sobbing, crying shape was pulled closer with every hiccup.

“But the pain of losing him for now, makes you wish you never knew him at all?”

Darkness could not hide the ever-escalating crying of one, but the sad eyes of the other. It did not hide the sound of footsteps of a mother concerned. But after exhaustion took over, it made it easier for two friends to slip into a well-deserved sleep, swirling emotions or not.

* * *

 

He was a loud sleeper, apparently always had been. Whether it’d be snoring or grunting, Buccaneer always made some noise. She’d know, she’d slept in the same room as him plenty of times. And though she hadn’t in well over a year, she’d not doubted that he’d remain a “heavy breather”. With her sitting in the kitchen most nights, she’d learned that he was a talker and screamer too now. He’d calm soon enough and thusly she’d let him fight his demons alone, as he seemed to be winning. It cost her some serious willpower not to hobble over to him, but she cared for him more, then she cared for her own peace of mind.

But the crying concerned her.

She didn’t know whether he was awake or still dreaming, but as he seemed to be in that kind of distress now for well over an hour, she decided to look. Rubbing her hands to rid them of the worst of the coal, taking one of her crutches, hobble-walking over to the door of the guest room, telling herself that it would surely stop once she looked through the crack of the ajar door. That he’d win this time too.

And after a whole of three rather noisy steps, as being silent wasn’t in her repertoire at the moment, his crying did suddenly stop. Which seemed awfully suspicious to her and made her stomach clench with worry. She was the one not facing anything, she was the one hiding. Not him.

And, hobbling the rest of the short distance, she knew that she’d have to look now, selfish or not, or she wouldn’t be able to rest well for some time to come. Had to make sure that it was just him, having an awfully bad dream, nothing more. That he was alright, sleeping fine and wasn’t hurting more than he should. Not at all at best.

When she pushed the door open slowly, she was met with eyes, staring at her through the darkness, and a man sitting upright in his bed, desperately trying to not make a sound.

The few paces left until she reached his bunk, its right side standing against the wall of the small guest room, she later couldn’t remember. She still knew that she let her crutch fall as soon as she stood next to the bed. That she stood at first, slowly sinking onto the edge of the bed, left leg out, right one folded under her body, her arms pulling him to her. That he came to rest against her, his head in the crook of her neck, covers bunched around his waist, body shaking from sobs that could no longer be supressed.

And she held him without hesitation. There was no room for weirdness with one arm soothingly sliding up and down his back, the other ruffling his mohawk, all the while her voice telling him that it was okay, that she was there. That she wouldn’t leave. And he knew her words to be sincere, felt one of the knots in his stomach loosen. And when he could speak again without hiccupping every second word, he told her what he’d dreamed.

At first it was always him, walking, feeling the sand in his boots grating not only away at the soles of his feet, but on his nerves also. So, he’d sit down, pull them off and let the sand in them drizzle on top of the dunes. And while the sand never seemed to stop, he’d notice the others around him. Not always were they people he knew, but often faces he’d only seen in passing. But plenty he recognized, whether they were distant relatives or people from school, a few grades below or above him. They’d tell him to hurry, so that he could get in front again, show them the way. And he’d always tell them that he wanted to get rid of the sand first.

They’d go ahead and always when they were just out of sight, the, up until this moment, constant drizzle of sand would stop. Then a bang would sound and a flash appear from the direction the people had wandered to. He’d run to them, boots laying forgotten in the sand, and then he’d see them. His comrades, torn from grenade or shot, not necessarily those that had indeed died on the battlefields he’d been on. His family and friends, Miles and Sherry often among them. The latter’s family too, since a few days ago, wounded, bleeding, dead.

Her, a sword through her ribcage, spread eagle on the sand, dull blue eyes still following him.

He grew quiet then, his body not shaking with sobs anymore, but shaking nonetheless. And she held him. Not like a mother would her child, or a wife her lover, but as something different and more entirely. She understood him, even whispered as much to him. She may not scream or cry, but she dreamed nonetheless. And after a while of shared closeness, his shivering ceased just as hers started. And as she seemed to be averse to pulling her arms away from him, which he noted with a blooming feeling of content in his chest, he put his one, up until now useless, appendage to work.

Her sleeping shorts were just long enough for him to grab on to, so that he could pull her left leg up without touching her cast, not sure if it could hurt her. Threw the bunched up blanket over her legs too, all the while scooting a bit closer to the wall, so she wouldn’t have to sit so cramped. And all the while she was looking kind of funny at him, her mouth doing the I’m-almost-smiling-but-I-pretend-not-to-be-thing. But she pushed against him nevertheless, so that they could lay back on the pillows, his head still in the crock of her neck, her arms still around him. And for a moment he couldn’t decide where to put his arm, just to wind it around Olivier, taking his chances and putting his hand on the naked triangle of flesh her tank-top clad back left her with.

And he felt the deep ridge poking out of it, a scar from the desert and touched it softly. He felt her body stiffen and loosen, stiffen and loosen with his touch. Knew that he was doing something uncomfortable but necessary. And she let him, wordlessly, as they both seemed to think that they’d spoken enough words for one night. Talked through gestures and touches now, as if their supply of words for voicing their demons was limited. And that was fine he thought, as it maybe was better to tackle their wounds one at a time.

And it gave him time to focus on her touch, her breathing and the feel of her skin beneath his fingertips.

The way her hands moved over his head, buried themselves in his hair, finally giving him the answer whether she liked his new do or not. Could not phantom how his re-growing head-stubble felt against her fingertips. His hand, working up and down her scar with increasing pressure and bravery, making it feel like a part of her own body again. Loved the feel of her hand against his ribcage, with every single movement over his scars and wounds telling him that he was beautiful to her, not a hideous, disfigured being. Tried to tell her the same with his hand, with his breath against her neck.

And when she turned her head, the stubble on his cheeks making her neck tingle, and looked into his eyes, she knew. They would stay together, would make plans, and try to find a way. Distanced herself from the other possibilities and simply decided, considering his warm eyes, that she wanted none of her other options to come to fruition. And she saw the realisation hit him, overtaking his features and form, felt his hand still against her. And she did not give him a chance to think about it, or rather overthink it.

She kissed him, closing her eyes.

* * *

 

It was a myth that sleeping in the arms of a loved one magically cures you of all your nightmares.

You still had bad dreams, still trashed in your sleep and still woke up in cold sweat. If anything, your dreams got even more realistic, the colours more vibrant, the sounds closer. No bad dream suddenly stopped just because the other drew their arm tighter around you. Waking the other from a nightmare wasn’t easy either, because you wanted to give them a chance to fight for themselves, but at the same time you didn’t want them to suffer.

And thus, they let the other sleep when either was awake for a moment, whether they were moving or talking, sweating or shaking. Of course, Olivier pulled him closer when he started to whisper, which was of course not interfering per se, but an involuntary movement on her part. And Buccaneer did indeed not wake her when she started to shake and twitch, but running his hand up and down her back, which wasn’t waking her up, but to soothe himself, really.

It did not make everything magically okay. But both did get up at the first rays of sunshine pouring through the window, somewhat rested despite the short night. And Buccaneer was momentarily overwhelmed by the luck he felt, seeing Olivier sitting on the edge of the bed, drawing her hair away from her face. By the glow of the skin shown by her tank-top and the way her muscles moved under that skin, not yet as they were before everything, but clearly profiting from their daily hobble-walks and the shared weights. He saw the last remains of coal on her hands, taking a mental note to ask her what the hell this was about, wondering if they were smudges on his head now too. And he saw her many small scars, his snowflakes, and thought about how they wanted to stay together, how it wasn’t an open question now. The grin stretched his mouth on its own accord.

And when she looked up from the floor, fishing for her crutch having been crowned with success, and saw him smiling like he did, she couldn’t help the smile spreading on her own face. It did not make you whole again, to get things like that off your chest, but it helped somewhat. And even though they had truly only spoken very little this past night, certain worries were gone for now. Scars were nothing, but marks of surviving. His stump, bandage-free since a few days, nothing that she feared to touch. Their mutual decision to stay together, finally clearing the path for plans. Her very own fear, of the weird feeling in her gut when someone touched her staying forever, gone with the dead of night.

And both knew in that moment, happy as they were, that they were not fine. But they would get closer to it, given some time.

“Breakfast?”

His eyes lit up saying that and her own growling stomach seconded his fine idea. And he got up, speeding past her, only just clad in his boxers, as always wanting to be the first in the kitchen. The promise of bacon and eggs, of something useful to do and the prospect of a nice future, at least the glimmer of one, had him moving fast. Hobbling behind him, taking her time, Olivier was confronted with a suddenly stopped Buccaneer. Staring into her open sketchpad, her big one, sitting upon the kitchen table.

“Damn!”

He said it quietly, under his breath, but she still heard. It wasn’t the “wow” kind of damn and neither the “that’s ugly” kind of damn. It was the “that’s fucked up” kind. He stood rooted to the spot, staring at her unfinished work and she noticed that he did not know where to put his hand, was unsure what to do at all.

She’d slept for a whole of two hours in Sherry’s room, then she’d woken up from a nightmare. They’d been at the last job again, the vehicle in what the papers had dubbed “the sea of flames”. She knew every detail of the scene, without dreaming of it, had drawn and painted every frame of it already. But the nights showed her what she should look at again, seemingly highlighted certain parts by showing them to her particularly slow.

Seeing Sanders being shot in the neck in slow motion, wasn’t something she needed to see. She’d seen it before, it was etched into her mind already. So deep, that she couldn’t talk about it, could hardly think about it. She could barely say his name in a conversation and if she was true with herself, it hadn’t even been a conversation. She’d wanted to tell Buccaneer whose burial they were going to. And even then, Karley had told him first, beating her to it. She hadn’t minded.

She’d drawn his face in the moment the bullet had hit him. Contorted features, making him look more and less like himself at the same time. You could see the lines the pain etched into his face, could see where every tendon of his muscles had tightened so much, they came close to snapping. You could see that there were horrible months behind him and in his eyes, eerily calm as they seemed, you could even see that he knew what was to come. That his end was near.

Olivier only thought that you could see all that in her picture, as she faultlessly could see it like that in her mind’s eye, while Buccaneer _saw_ all that, but he also saw the rest. The open wound, the flesh tearing and the muscle underneath, without colour seemingly more detailed than as a mash of red it could ever be. The attention to detail, which surpassed mere attention and crossed into something nearing obsession. That she’d not finished it, because she’d went over to him instead.

Knowing that he could pull her out of the hole her nights were, felt oddly gratifying to him.

Yet, he could not say anything. What he just saw pulled on the edges of his mind, forced him to straighten his back and push his thoughts down. It would be of no use to despair and there was no time for it either. He saw the packet with the silk-paper, took out a sheet and put it on the picture, closing her sketchpad. Was mindful not to smudge the coal, to keep the paper in one piece, feeling rather than knowing, what those pages held. What all the others she filled completely those last few weeks held, kept closed by a red rubber band. Knew why she choose red now.

With an expression Olivier had trouble to read, Buccaneer turned around and hugged her without preamble. She could barely feel that he was one arm short, so hard he pulled her into him and while she wanted to resist at first, because you did not simply touch her, she let him. Even let herself fall a little, sensing that he did this for himself just as much as he did it for her. That he was aware of what had to go on in her head, that it set his own gears to run. That he wanted her close despite all of that.

When he finally let got, or she finally let go, they continued getting on with their day. Olivier cleared the kitchen table, Buccaneer washed his hands and searched for pans and plates. Miss Althea was surprised to see both up already, her kitchen in use but as clean as it was possible while cooking. And, after he turned beet red and went to get some more clothes and washing away coal-smudges from the top of his head, Buccaneer feed the whole household a big breakfast.

All the while keeping Olivier away from the oven, so she couldn’t burn the food.

* * *

 

“They answered you so fast?! I didn’t even know you’d applied.”

It had gotten warmer over the last few days, spring finally turning it up a notch. At this pace, summer would come around when the calendar read October. And yet, it had been a good idea to make a beeline through the fields, after going to the stores in the village.

“I`d applied at a few places. About two weeks ago, I send them away. On a Wednesday. But I’d not expected them to answer so fast.”

It was usual here, that you picked up your mail from the post office. Buccaneer and Olivier hadn’t minded, always fine with an excuse to do something. And so, the trip to the post-office had become an almost daily thing, both writing and receiving plenty. Yet, Buccaneer couldn’t help himself but shot her a glance, when she admitted to sending that mail away on a Wednesday. He spoke to Miss Tamin on Wednesdays.

“Well, you’re an asset. Grades good, experience. What else could they possibly want?”

“A dick?”

He raised an eyebrow at that. Seven unopened envelopes were in her backpack now and he could only imagine what they had to weigh. Not literally of course, even though all of them were the big kind, but emotionally. Her future was in there, her plans, hopes and dreams. Them too, to an extent, because while she could study at any of the Universities, he had only two military-hospitals they would do his arm in without additional cost. And everybody told him that getting used to automail took three years at least.

“They’re that backwards?”

“Plenty are, most even. My name helped me lots in Central, but I doubt it will now.”

She did not seem crestfallen, with the letters yet unopened she had no logical reason to. But there was something, the very same emotion that Buccaneer couldn’t place, but that always ghosted over her face by the mention of her family name in context with influence. He’d seen the letter her father had sent months ago, and the one she got a week ago, both unopened, put away so that she didn’t have to see them every day. It rubbed him the wrong way, that the fearless women next to him was afraid of what could be written on those pages. Not because he thought less of her, but because of what her father let happen to her, because he was interested in what he wanted to say and because he was more than prepared to give the man his two cents in the matter, should it be something awful. Not that he would do that without her approval, knowing full-well that she preferred to fight her own battles.

“You wanna open the envelopes at the house?”

She stopped and thought. He even walked on a few metres, until he noticed her not keeping up with him, noticed that the regular sound of leg, then crutch on gravel had ceased. When he looked back at her, she was already searching for a place to sit. There was Sherry’s Mother when they got back and Alma was surely back from school already, tending to be all over Olivier in the afternoon. Which the latter did not mind, really, but the possibility of sevenfold rejection and the dealing with it, wasn’t something she wanted to do in front of a fourteen-year-old. Being good at dealing with it or not.

A flat boulder was quickly found and Buccaneer took her hand almost automatically, helping her with sitting down. While she was already opening her backpack, her sat down on her left.

“You do some, I do some, or else it takes way too long.”

He was handed a small stack and, while she was just opening hers from top to bottom, searched for a certain one, hoping to be the one to have gotten it.

The third in his hand was from North City University and he carefully put the others to the side, trapped the envelope between his knees and opened it carefully. He did not notice that she’d burned through all her other envelopes and already started stealing his. That she was looking at him out of the corner of her eye, observing how he opened the envelope with one arm. Even her small smile went unnoticed, gracing her mouth the second he found a solution to being one hand short.

All the while he pulled out a small stack of papers, not readjusting the pressure of his knees, the envelope falling to the ground. And he’d just put said stack on his knees to read, when a gust of wind rustled the leaves on the trees and the edges of the paper. He’d come as far as the introductory sentence, when a second, undeniably stronger, gust, took the papers with it.

“Oh fuck!”

Buccaneer stood up rapidly, making sure the rest of the papers on his lap kissed the floor too. And cursing wildly he set to picking up the scattered papers, always catching one or two with his hand, then handing them over to Olivier. She stacked them neatly, watching Buccaneer with amusement in her eyes and traces of it pulling on the corners of her mouth. And when he bent down to pick up the last page the wind snatched it away under his fingers. But before the paper could get away, it was pressed into the gravel by Olivier’s crutch. He picked it up and handed it over.

“Good reflexes.”

“You just had to scatter them everywhere like a moron, didn’t you?”

He sat himself down on her left again and let loose his throaty laugh.

“Like you didn’t think it was funny!”

She tried her best to sound cross with him, but it seemed fake.

“Those are important papers!”

He answered her now growing grin with an unusual sombreness, plucked the papers from Northern from her hands and started to read. Searched rather, though that was made easy by a ring of gravel-dust, no doubt left by the rubber of her crutch, around a quite important word: accepted.

He grinned fondly.

“Important papers indeed. They accepted you at Northern.”

Calmly he tapped his finger on the paper and she leaned into him to get a better look. He made no sound as she leaned into the stump, as it did not hurt anymore, but he nonetheless noticed how casually she moved. His grin widened. As casually as she moved, she talked.

“Six out of seven then, not bad.”

His grin got a fraction smaller and he turned to look her in the eye.

“Six of seven? Without a dick of your own? Tell me, which university was clever enough to turn you down?”

He challenged her and she stepped up to it, the dangerous kind of smile showing on her face. And even though he audibly gulped, he held his ground. For a woman that was as straight to the point as she was, her tone of voice grew decidedly teasing.

“And here I sit, having thought you to be the dick in my life. Well, apparently, I was wrong.” She theatrically sighed and then spoke on, normal again. “Central. I would not fit in with the student body or some nonsense like this. No matter, I wanted to go to the best anyways, and now I can.”

He barked a laugh at her response, but grew more anxious either.

“I thought Central is the best?”

Her strict finger almost pocked out his eye and he revelled in her relaxed demeanour for a second, taking it in with a deep-seated happiness.

“It _was_ the best in the Country. It isn’t anymore, not since they changed their planned timetables from more practical to more theoretical.”

Maybe she was so relaxed suddenly, because of the letters of acceptance. Or because she could go to her dream University. Lightheaded by the endorphins, that had to be it. Yet, Buccaneer fought to keep his nerves out of his voice.

“And which would that be?”

“North City University of course. Small classes, practical and theoretical balance, best Professors. I’m told its pretty damn cold there and the people are hardy, but I should be fine with a snow-shovel and a dick.”

Buccaneer felt the grin on his face grow again, to the span of showing-all-of-his-teeth. Thought silently to himself, that a little part of her relaxation, maybe stemmed from the knowledge that they could stay close to the other. Just maybe, if he indulged himself a little and allowed himself to think of her not only as a badass, but of a badass with a weakness for him.

“Well, I know the best snow-shovel-seller in all of North Amestris. And Miles told me on many occasions that I’m quite a dick.”

“I don’t want to know what you and Miles did with your dicks. And I don’t want to know what he thought about your dick in particular either.”

He barked his laugh again, while she repacked her backpack, grinning. Then she hoisted herself up with the help of her crutch and adjusted the backpack for their journey back. He sat a few seconds more, just enjoying the breeze, before getting up and following her.

She called at him over her shoulder and he felt his heart beat faster with every single one of her words.

“But Miles was always a man of facts. So, if he said you’re a qualified dick, I take his word for it. Interested in the position?”

“When can I start?”

* * *

 

“You went with him to Miss Tamin?!”

Sherry was in shock and stayed in shock. Olivier had in no way done a full turn, but she’d found most of her old self over the almost two months living with them and now, two days before Bucky’s and her departure, she seemed to have made a breakthrough.

“I waited outside and drew a bit. He’d asked and I wanted to be nice.”

She played it off like it was nothing, but Sherry knew better. Knew, that Bucky and Liv sometimes slept in the guest-room together. She’d even seen them kiss once, and had to keep herself from squealing like a school girl. That they’d move together to North City, that Bucky had already talked to a friend of his, so they had a place to crash at for the first few days.

“Well, it was nice of you. Unusually nice even. But what to expect from a woman in love.”

The crutch she’d anticipated and blocked it perfectly. Skills you only learned in a hospital. Olivier looked at her a bit disappointed and huffed.

“Yeah, go ahead, cheapen it with overused words, that are always uttered in this society when you find someone you can stand longer than five minutes.”

“Not wrong. Not necessarily right either, but not wrong.”

“What’s not wrong?”

Buccaneer let himself plop down on the couch next to Olivier, looking between the girls. Gazes were exchanged and Sherry spoke without a hitch.

“That if there’d be a way to reuse pads after menstruating, you could probably even make clothing out of them.”

Buccaneer shot Olivier a disgusted look.

“Who’d wear clothing made of used pads?! I mean, you could, it wouldn’t be wrong, but I doubt it’d feel right either.”

“Just what I say!”

Sherry threw her hands in the air in an exasperated gesture, which in turn made Olivier grin, which confused Buccaneer. Then he caught on.

“You’re playing with me?”

He did not sound angry, but slightly amused himself. The girls nodded.

“You tell me what you were really talking about”

They shook their heads in union. He groaned.

“You were talking about me, weren’t you?!”

Now Sherry just had to laugh.

“You look like a school-boy, who just found out that the others said mean things about him behind his back! You’re even pouting!”

Olivier had to admit that his face looked suspiciously like he was indeed pouting, which of course stopped the second Sherry said it. And even though she knew him to be not truly angry, even with Sherry laughing herself to tears in her corner of the couch, but she still felt an undeniable desire to see him smile. And she didn’t just want to see him smile, he did that often enough, no she wanted to make him smile that teeth-showing, ear-to-ear grin.

“Quit looking like a kicked puppy! We were only saying nice things about you!”

It came out quite rude. She decided her tone could use some work, yet, he’d never complained.

“Nice things?”

You could hear the humour in his voice, but also the questioning undertone. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe her, it was just hard to, considering it was _praise_.

“Yes, only nice things! Now stop worrying.”

She looked like he was getting on her nerves, just for good measure. Then she pushed her good leg, the one not lazing about in its cast on the living-room-table, into his thigh. Finally, his grin grew and he let himself fall back into the cushions too.

Sherry watched them like a hawk, grinning like mad. They decided not to ask, because they knew what was going on in her head, really, but after a few moments of silence, found other things to talk about.

And after it was clear when Olivier’s classes would start and when Bucky would get his data taken in the hospital. When Sherry made sure to ask again if Livie and Buccaneer would share a flat, just to rile the former up. When Buccaneer stole the crutch, so the furious blond could not follow her fleeing form and when all of them calmed down again and shared a bit idle talk, only then did Sherry get ready for the afternoon-bout in her Office. They always lined up on Monday-afternoons.

When Sherry was gone, silence befell the living room. The comfortable kind. And it wasn’t long before Buccaneer felt a pressure on his right side. And he turned to look slowly, just to find Olivier sleeping against his arm. Relaxed, breathing slowly.

He felt the smile stretch his mouth.


	14. Chapter 14

It was a good thing that their train took off in the middle of Wednesday night.

After a busy day, canned in a way to small car with Sherry’s parents and Sherry herself, seemingly a thousand things to do before they could be dropped off at the train station for the overnighter to North City, Armstrong and him were properly worn out. Amongst the masses of people filtering through the city, Buccaneer experienced how important his right arm had apparently been for his balance. The people bumping into him had him swaying through the streets and he only realised how unsteady it had to look, when Armstrong changed to crutch-walking on his left, so he had a shoulder to steady himself on, should he need it. And she had her own troubles to add to it, many, but not all people making way for her, handicapped as she was at the moment. The nervous shaking of her fingers, not noticed by Sherry’s parents, but by him and Sherry the second it began, speaking of the stress the city put her into, so different from before the war.

They’d bought some stuff that was not to be had in Sherry’s hometown, used one of the numerous phone booths to make several calls and when Sherry’s parents invited them to dinner, he did revel in the delicious food, but couldn’t not notice that Armstrong, who’s ravenous appetite had made a glorious return a few weeks ago, was picking at her food. He wanted to blame it on her anxiety from before, when they were still pushing through the main shopping-mile, but they’d left it more than an hour ago and she’d calmed almost instantly. It was when he saw her eyes darting from here to there, when he decided to follow her gaze. Through the window were they sat, over the broad street and through the next window on the other side of the road, belonging to a fancy tea parlour, he saw someone he’d seen before.

Catherine Elle Armstrong was sitting unnaturally straight in an opulent chair, which threatened to swallow her whole. Her hands were in her lap, eyes locked on the cloth lain over the table-top, with so much willpower that he could practically feel her neck straining from where he sat. A third hand was clamping down on the girls’ knee, hidden to those in the parlour, but easy to see from the outside. He’d only ever seen Armstrong’s mother on pictures, but he was sure that it was the real thing, whispering into her youngest daughter’s ear with an expression on her face that would make a northern bear scramble in fear. He felt almost uneasy, noticing how much alike Olivier and her mother looked.

He’d seen plenty of kids trying not to cry, first his many cousins, later the kids in the boarding school. And he had to admire her youngest sister, for holding the tears back for so long and continuing to do so.

And yet, he felt his anger rise.

A hand gripped his knee softly under the table, so ironically similar and yet different. He knew that it had to be Armstrong, turned to look at her, but she was just now exchanging some words with Sherry’s mother. She acted well, though he could tell that she was in fact acting for them and he understood that she did not want them to notice the tableau on the other side of the street. She did not want them to get angry, did not want them to defend her. He could vividly imagine Miss Althea just walking up to Armstrong's mother, giving the women her own two cenz on her behaviour. This would mean she’d punch her in the face. And he complied with her wishes, squeezing her hand covertly under the table, telling her that he understood.

But he could not keep himself from stealing a glance every now and then, if just to make sure that Catherine was alright. Saw that the girl did not dare to look anywhere else than into her teacup or her mother’s face. Noticed that Armstrong’s mother herself was restless, caught her stealing glances in their direction every so often, her movements speaking of anger, so very different from her eldest daughter’s typical ire. And when their glances met then, if for only a second, he stuck out his tongue.

It was childish for sure, but nobody on his table had noticed and the expression on her face was priceless.

He was thrown a sideways glance by _his_ Armstrong, but just grinned at her, which she requited with a slightly puzzled smile. Soon after they packed up their things, the Althea’s ready to drive home, the two of them ready to wait for their train. Leftovers were put into doggy-bags and Sherry’s father demanded that “Ollie” eat hers on the train, thoroughly shaken that she did not manage to completely down her pasta.

He helped her into her jacket, like he so often did, so she would not topple while holding her crutches in one hand. Felt watched while doing it, not just by the always grinning Sherry. And the watched feeling did not cease, when Mr. Althea reached into the trunk of the car, parked in front of the restaurant they'd eaten at, putting their shopped goods away, while handing out their over-the-shoulder duffle-bags, his wife had helped them pack. Was filling right now, with their few newest additions. And he felt like two holes were burned into his chest, when Armstrong hoisted the bag over his shoulder, making sure that it didn't brush over the stump.

It was a wonder that the pavement didn't start to smoulder, when they were thoroughly hugged, smooched and encouraged. He heard Miss Althea telling "Ollie" to take care of herself, miraculously not being killed by her. Mr. Althea told them that they could always come by if something was amiss, both of them. That they'd hug Alma from them, who couldn’t come with them because of school. And it was of course Sherry that shed a few tears, both of them promising her that she could always come visit them.

With the promise of letters upon letters they finally parted, the Althea-family driving of in the lend car, Armstrong and him walking into the direction of the train-station.

He wondered if Miss Armstrong would wait another hour before leaving the tea-parlour, just to make sure.

They walked the first third of the quite short way in silence, both putting some serious effort into looking ahead and freeing their thoughts of Mrs. Armstrong. At least until they were definitely out of earshot.

"Think she knows that you've seen her?"

Armstrong huffed.

"Our eyes met briefly and she tried her best to kill me with one look, so I'm quite confident that she's noticed."

"Catherine was there..."

She took the time to look him in the eye and pull one of her eyebrows up as far as it would go.

"No shit, Sherlock! She actually noticed me first. Even tried to wave _covertly_ , remembering that she's not supposed to admit I exist."

And now she sighed, just as they entered the main hall of the train-station.

"Mother apparently noticed, or she wouldn’t have gotten the hand."

Late as it was, the station wasn’t particularly packed and yet they had to make it all the way to their platform, until they could talk again. It was as deserted as could be, North City in spring as thrilling as a beach in winter, and after claiming the best bench they could find, Buccaneer helping Armstrong with sitting down, he asked the question that was burning on his tongue.

"That thing with the hand, what does it mean?"

The breath she let out was a heavy one, going hand in hand with his loaded question and he could see how much she wanted to just disregard what he'd asked. But after a small moment, she did turn to him, sounding pressed, with pain in her eyes.

"The hand-thing is like someone put a spanner on your knee or wrist. It feels like your bone is about to splinter and your flesh tears at any moment, but the worst is how she speaks to you in those moments. Like your nothing, a stain on the wall. She isn’t telling you how to behave; she's ordering you with a gun to your head."

Another big sigh and a forlorn sad look.

"As far as I know, she'd never used it on Cathy though..."

Olivier looked the other way, to outsiders looking like he just said something she didn’t want to hear, but he knew better: she needed a moment to compose herself. Buccaneer got up, getting his money, giving her space and getting a little something.

He knew that she was secretive not just to an extent, talking about plenty of things only when explicitly asked. Knew that her childhood hadn't been the best, spoiled brat or not. Proof, that unhappiness was nothing one could measure. But he understood now, that she seemingly was the keeper of her siblings. Or rather had been, since removed from the family probably constantly wondering if they were alright. He knew quite little about them, only ever meeting Alex and Catherine. The former was the eyeball of his parents that much he'd once gotten out of Armstrong. She hadn’t seemed to mind, loving him dearly herself, and with today's knowledge he understood, because it meant one person less to watch over. And while she rarely talked about her other sisters, Amue and Strongine, he remembered from Alex and hers tails that they had as much of a rebellious streak as their eldest sister, even though it expressed itself differently.

When he came back, he still took her hand in his and squeezed it tightly. Covertly of course, because he knew who she was, learned more about her every day. Found more little things to love about her every day. And she squeezed his hand back, with a ferocity he'd not expected and yet welcomed. And he was not sad when their hands parted again, the train rolling slowly into the station.

They helped each other with their bags and boarded. Found empty seats next to each other, him sitting with his stump to the window, her sitting with her bag between her legs. Sticking out of the top of it was a suspicious lump of fabric and Buccaneer knew that Sherry's mother had packed her sword for easy access, but with little exposition to the public eye, the thing about two inches too long for the duffle-bag. And when she finally found a position that was manageable with her leg, he reached into his pocket and handed her one of the freshly bought lollipops.

"Where did you get those so suddenly? Have they been in your pocket since you were four?"

He grinned, popping one into his mouth.

"Yeah, I get it, lollipops are for kids. Still want one?"

She took it from him with a sour face, matching the lemon-lime flavour.

Buccaneer wouldn’t be deterred, watching as she popped the yellow ball into her mouth.

"I always get them before I ride to North City. It's a travel-thing."

Olivier looked at him, brows meeting her hairline, lollipop in her mouth.

Her hands didn’t shake.

* * *

 

“Do you think this is a whorehouse? No, no, this is an honourable house! Get out, you two and fast!”

She could not even bring herself to retort angrily. She’d done it forty-seven times already today, and it had made exactly zero difference. And while that usually did not stop Olivier Mira Armstrong, she decided that she should save her breath for walking on those thrice-dammed crutches. Having to walk all over North City, left her winded enough.

They had found shelter by one of Buccaneers friends from his time at school, which he had planned beforehand. The guy was on a trip to the west currently and had offered Buccaneer to use his rooms for a few days, sending him a key in the mail. The apartment was cosy, but they both felt like foreign bodies in it and wanted to have their own place as fast as possible. And finding a flat in North City should have been easy enough, as many were on the market and the rent being almost ridiculously low. Which had struck her as a very good thing, as both of them had no jobs yet and the only things they could count on were their medical costs and her tuition being covered, courtesy of the Amestrian government, as compensation for their fighting-power given in the war. They still had some money on the side, but two months was the most they could live on that.

But she’d not expected to be called a whore repeatedly and even though it cracked her up at first, when old lady’s called the big guy a “pimp”, as he was the last person you’d expect to be one, it had gotten old very fast. And at the fourth place it had started to make her angry. She called the people out for their backwardness, Buccaneer knowing better than to stop her. Patiently he listened to her angry tirades when they walked to the next place, unflinching.

She deemed it only logical that the most worried man on this planet would worry about her not getting angry, too.

“You need a break?”

Biting back a laugh, she schooled her face to remain the stoic mask she always wore outside of their privacy and by his casual tone she could tell that he tried the same. Still she knew that he was faking it.

“From old, backwards assholes, yes. How come you didn’t know that you apparently need a marriage certificate, if you want to rent a place as a pair?”

The faintest idea of a blush crept over his face and she could tell by his answer that things just hadn’t gone according to the way he planned it.

“Forgot it, I suppose. Not the first thing that crossed my mind when thinking of finding a place to live, really. Location and cost were the things I thought about…”

She snorted, her breath coming as a small puff of cold air, the temperature fairly low, even for North City in spring.

“Yeah, for sure. Location, heating and furniture. I can picture you hunched over the tables, calculating until your fingers hurt.”

To the outsider it would’ve sounded mean, but he knew it to be her trademark-snark, she was sure of that. And he damn-well knew that she could see right through him, at least most of the time. His grin reassured her of all of that.

Buccaneer barked a gruff laugh.

“Yeah, okay, you got me. Honestly, I just hoped it would sort itself out before hunting for a place to live…”

He looked at her, wriggling his eyebrows, with a look that clearly said “If you get my drift” and a little bit of fear lurking in his eyes.

Olivier shook her head.

“You’re one daring man, you know that? Almost stupidly so.”

She could not bring herself to sound cross about that. Buccaneers mouth widened to a grin.

“You wouldn’t even be seen with me, if I weren’t.”

That earned him a raised eyebrow and a quite chuckle from her, but the rest of the way to the next flat for rent they only spoke little, caught up in thoughts they did not dare to voice aloud on a busy street and even less anywhere else. Even if it was only North City-busy, which was nowhere close to Central-busy. But Olivier was glad for the fewer people, the anxiety in crowds, an unwanted souvenir from Ishval, hitting her not nearly as hard here as it had in Central. And Buccaneer walking to the next address with a self-assured and confident step felt better to her, than to follow the Althea’s through a city they barely knew their way around.

“That’s going to be the last one for today, right?”

They stood in front of a somewhat rundown building, four stories high. It wasn’t the best of neighbourhoods, pretty far up the northern part of the city, closer to the numerous industries than any of the other places they'd seen today. The campus was in the heart of the city and while it would be an easy way, simply following the main street to it, it would be a rather long one. The hospital was even further down south from it and before ringing the doorbell, she saw Buccaneer glancing about. When he found the sign for a bus stop, his finger pressed the button.

“Here goes nothing…”

Olivier shifted on her crutches, feeling the long day in her bones. They’d still have to walk down to the flat they were momentarily staying in and would have to stop by the hospital before that, her daily bandage-change not something that was up for negotiation. And to think that they probably had to do this again tomorrow…

“What if this one’s shit?”

The big guy shrugged.

“We’ll have to do the same thing tomorrow, with lowered expectations. Or separate.”

She caught the grimace ghosting over his face, no matter how much he tried to hide it.

“That’d be pretty tight on the money for each of us, don’t you think? And considering you can’t even tie your shoes by yourself at the moment…”

Maybe that comment was a bit _low_ , but retaliation followed in a second.

“Brave words, coming from a woman who can barely sit down by herself. And I won’t even start talking about the bathroom.”

She glared at him and punched him on the shoulder the exact moment the door to the building opened. Both put on their best smiles in an instant, Olivier scrambling to get her second crutch in hand again.

The old woman, bend like a rusty pipe, looked at them through bespectacled eyes.

“You two are here because of the flat?”

Buccaneer nodded and she saw him repress the shudder at the old Lady’s croaky voice.

“We’re…”

He tried to introduce them, but the old lady was talking over him without hesitation.

“Here’s the key, 402, under the roof. The rent's like it said in the paper. Look at it and tell me if it’s what you’ve been looking for.”

Olivier tried her best to not let her stoic expression derail into a grin.

“But we thought that…”

The old lady was waving her cane at him in a “don’t bother me”-motion.

“I can’t go up there honey, I’d die before I reach the second floor. And quite a task it’s with those crutches too, I bet. Good luck and don’t forget to come knocking when you’re done.”

They just stood there, dumbfounded, the old lady long back in her own flat, before they tackled the stairs in union, the blonde snickering to herself. But at the second landing of stairs Olivier felt like dying a little too, determination pushing her on of course and the motivation of not being called a whore for once. Thoroughly winded they arrived in front of number 402 sometime later, Buccaneer breathing hard, she herself cussing like a sailor.

“These stairs are a bitch!”

Her arms hurt like hell, as she’d pulled herself up with those mostly. Remembering that her dorm had been just one floor lower, she suddenly felt old and haggard, but of course that had been before the crutches. She’d not doubt that she would jog these stairs up without them in no time. Minus the cast of course.

Buccaneer let the keys jingle.

“Ready?”

Nodding, to herself hoping that this one was an okay flat, she watched the big guy turn the key. The staircases had been nice enough, somewhat old but clean to the tiniest corner. She dared to hope.

It was basically a one-room apartment. Kitchen and living room were one with the bedroom, even though the bed was separated by a wall stopping in the middle of the room. The floors were wooden, the furniture outdated but clean. Buccaneer checked the bathroom first and after deeming the coast clear, waved her over. The tiles locked atrocious, but after turning every lever, Olivier was glad to find that everything was in working order. And the water a healthy colour: none.

Buccaneer wandered through the rather spacious room, checking if the windows could be opened and which kind of heating was installed. Olivier noticed how very pleased he looked and felt like the time had come for the moment of truth.

"Should we talk to the hag?"

"This place is good, especially for how little money she wants. But if it's not yours we'll search some more."

She cocked her head to the side, going as far as grinning a little, the door to the place closed.

"You're not stupid, you already know I think it's good."

"The stairs won't be a problem?"

He realised his mistake the second the words left his mouth and he almost flinched when she scoffed.

"Yeah, sure. Like some stairs could stop me."

He earned that glare, this much she knew for sure.

"So were going down and talk with her?

She leaned heavily on her crutches, speaking sarcastically.

"Maybe I'll learn a new, alternative term for whore."

* * *

 

"Olivier Armstrong, I need my bandages changed."

The blonde was damn beautiful; night-head-nurse Dave could not help but notice. Hair curly, falling just below her shoulders, hiding one eye form view. Blue like the sky they were and shortly before his professionalism pulled him out of his thoughts, her facial expression changing from neutral to irritated did. God, she got more beautiful when angry.

"No, the form is not faked!"

His colleague had obviously done it again and angered a patient. She had a knack for this. He got up, walked over and tapped the redhead on the shoulder.

"What seems to be the problem here, Rita?"

He'd told the girl four times already, that chewing gum on the job was totally not okay. The answer he got was snotty.

"This woman claims that she wears a type-four-burn-cast and needs a bandage change. And instead of paying she gives me one of those obviously faked forms."

Rita was not a bad nurse, Dave knew that. She just listened to the wrong people in this hospital, the bitter, uppity Doctors, waiting for their retirement. The worn out and often lied to people from the medication-service. Her bluecoat-boyfriend, going on how about everyone that served in the conflict with Ishval should get treated in the military-hospitals, every time he was here.

He looked over the forms with a practiced eye, finding nothing wrong with it. She'd also handed over a copy of her patient documentation and after a quick scan of it, he turned to his colleague again.

"Please inform the nurse in the burn-ward, that well be sending a T4-change up shortly, Rita. We'll talk later."

He remained calm while talking to the girl, screaming and acting inappropriate in front of a patient never the way to go and when she was on her merry way, already thoroughly humbled, he turned to the blonde woman.

"Miss Armstrong was it, right?"

A curt nod, face a stony mask.

"I have to apologise for my colleague, she is not yet familiar with these forms. You can think of the cost as covered and may proceed to the 6th floor, were the burn ward is located. A nurse is already waiting there for you."

He extended his hand in the direction of stairs and elevator and after being offered a polite "thank you" watched her go. And just now he noticed the massive man following behind her, wondering if she was so beautiful that he could have simply missed him. Which was hard to admit, because the guy was ridiculously tall and looked like a bodybuilder-trainee.

Well, he couldn’t help it anyway. The eerily beautiful ones always were taken.

* * *

 

"You look like you've just been skinned alive."

Buccaneer was looking at her, worry in his eyes. It _had_ hurt. Still did if she was honest. The sweat had soaked her bandage, which had in turn stuck to her skin. Her tender and thin skin, now missing in a few, albeit small, patches. She felt awfully raw now, the material of the bandage suddenly feeling coarse under the cast. Usually she felt nothing beneath it, thanks to the pressure. But right now she wanted to rip it off and scratch until the sensation stopped.

Of course, she did not tell him this, at least not here, not now.

"I'll survive it, don’t worry. But the nurse said that I should get off of my feet as soon as possible and to take it slow the next few days, too."

The man in front of her grunted, not convinced. And yet, she saw in his eyes that he was letting the matter rest, at least for now. When they were back in the small flat of his friend, he'd pry some more, that she knew for sure. But she could live with that, as she was just as curious of a person as he was. She just knew how to hide it better.

"And while we're at it, big guy, the nurse said that you should tell the people at the automail-station that you need a appointment. Apparently its deserted at this time of the day and the night-personnel is pretty good at squeezing people on the rooster."

And now the colour of his irises seemed to grow darker, just like it always did when he couldn’t keep himself from being a sob in public.

"You sure that you're up for it?"

And she scoffed, face hardy, because that's simply what she did when a nurse walked by.

"I'll manage five minutes more."

And he took her word for it, only looking for a moment as though he'd fight her on the matter. She lead on then, having already spotted the signs pointing them in the right direction. The pang she felt when the stations night nurse smiled at _him_ in an alluring way was unexpected.

The girl had given him an appointment right on the next day and then seemed to drag on the conversation. And Sherry's words rung in her mind then, that plenty of girls liked Buccaneers type and seeing as he was a good guy, they liked him especially. And suddenly she'd understood those words better than ever before. The pang she'd felt had been a pang of jealousy.

It was not something she was used to, at least not in the context of boy- or girlfriends. The two people she'd been in a relationship with before had been important to her too, but she'd never felt this surge of jealousy with them. Protective, yes, vigilant, but never like leaping over the desk and wiping the smile off of someone’s face. Preferably with her fist.

She held herself back.

The girls smile fell a little just now and Buccaneer turned to face her.

"Ok, we're good to go."

They made their way out of the hospital and onto the street. He told her the time of his appointment, asked her at which time she had to sign her papers at the university tomorrow and when they should tackle the whole moving business, consisting of the overwhelming number of two duffle-bags. And she answered normally, if inwardly still discussing her bout of jealousy with herself. Barely able to wrap her head around it, not because she couldn’t phantom being jealous, but because she simply didn’t want to be that kind of person. It wasn’t useful.

And because she knew that he'd smile smugly if he found out.

The jingle of keys puller her out of her thoughts and she caught him staring intently at her.

"Everything alright?"

She nodded and together they made their way into the rooms they called home the last few days. And while she was prying off her shoes with her crutches, he made something to eat. And just when they were seated at the small table, eating with appetite, he looked at her with worry in his dark eyes.

"You sure you alright? You've been looking weird since before leaving the hospital."

She nodded again, mouth full, not willing to give him that certain titbit of information. She should've known beforehand that he'd figure it out by himself.

"You've been looking like this since I talked to this lady. If I didn’t know you better, I'd say..."

And maybe she blushed the tiniest bit, because suddenly something flickered in his eyes.

And then a smug grin spread on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You could say it took me a while... but hey, at least I'm done moving ;)  
> Thanks for reading!  
> Read and Review


	15. Chapter 15

"You can turn the paper around now!"

The sound of papers, dutifully being turned around, then the furious scribbling of pencils on paper. The questions were fairly easy and she took time and care answering them, wanting to be as throughout as possible. Still, she was done first and had to wait for the others to finish or for the time to be up. It was the so called "capability-test", which would test their knowledge, hopefully achieved, while working on their bachelor-degree. It would show weaknesses individually and was a useful tool in making sure that everybody in this room would get through to their master, or shown onto another path early on.

She took it with twenty-two other people, the whole masters course of this year and the last, a course so small that the room around them was big and empty and cold. The war had more than cut in half the engineering-courses nationwide. And the few that were here, well, she wasn't the only one with physical impairment. Two others walked on crutches too, one of them in the process of getting used to his brand-new automail-socket. The other would be rid of the crutches soon, just like she would, wearing a cast because of a severely broken bone.

Several were scarred, often on hands and arms, a few wearing casts under their clothes, on back or arm, easy to spot only when you knew what you were looking for. They were nice, at least most of them, only the two that stayed with the military keeping to themselves. Their Prof was a strict man, had served last year too and lost two fingers on his right hand in the process. He talked them through the welcome-Friday-lecture, announcing todays test to them and explaining their use.

Their score would show if they needed help with possible problems concerning the workload, yes, but it was even more important if they wanted to find a job where they could work on their patent-piece, something that was almost impossible to do at home. Especially if you needed to pay bills. On Wednesday they would get their results and then be introduced to several businesses from North City, searching for personnel. They would get the chance to earn experience, money and a place where they could experiment, as their thesis usually involved an invention or a significant improvement of an already existing technology.

He'd called everyone out who disrupted the quiet in the way to big lecture theatre. Had not treated her differently from the men, had not stopped at her name on the list and yet had noted everybody’s impairments in the short two-hour-lecture. When walking into this room, ready for the test, there had been a second stool on the other side of the table her name was on, so that she could rest her stiffened leg. She'd seen similar things at others tables, may it be pillows, chairs or learning pencils for those who had to write with their not-dominant hand.

She was interested in how he would conduct tomorrows’ practical test, because if they had to work on bigger machinery it would be hard to accommodate for everyone. Even with her cast she was rather nimble still, having found plenty of ways to work around her one stiff leg. Yes, around their little flat Buccaneer helped her out plenty, but just because he liked doing it. And she liked it when he liked things, so she let him. Yet, she wondered what this man, obviously obsessed with fairness, would do. Because he didn’t strike her as the type that would prefer one above the other.

Looking around the room, noticing that almost everybody was still busy, she let her thoughts wander some more. She'd go to the library after they were done here, as she wanted to pick up some books. Would buy the food for tonight, get her bandages changed and then pick up Buccaneer from his station, as he had an appointment for getting his nerves tested today. His first one had gone over well and he rather liked his Doctor, a young man, but working with definitive passion, according to Buccaneers words. They'd go home, eat and then let the day wind down.

The big guy was of course still looking for a job, having been turned away at plenty of places already, due to his handicap. He wanted to seem cheerful for her, she was not blind to that, but she wasn’t for his pain either. She did not yet know how to ask him, but she'd figure it out until they got home. He already had found a new psychiatrist at least, which had been easy with the help of Miss Tamin's contacts. And he had had no qualms about asking her if she wanted an appointment too, because he had fewer problems with voicing his troubles, and even less when it was her that was troubling him.

She refused.

While aware that it could do her a world of good to just talk to someone neutral, she'd decided not to visit a psychiatrist yet. She'd enough on her plate with her freshly started master-studies, the rather long commute to and from their flat and the knowledge that work would most likely start in a few days. Adding to that, she had an examination-date in four days, concerning the splinters in her body. Inwardly sighing, she thought how she would be poked and prodded again, after the merciful brake of wonderfully un-nosy nurses changing your bandages. Well, except for the usual "Oh, is this your boyfriend?! A mighty handsome guy!".

Well, it couldn’t be helped. She saw the Prof getting up and knew the time would be up soon. One last time checking over her answers, she gathered her papers in the right order and when the signal was given, she was the first handing them over. Outside of the room, picking up her jacket from the racket and putting it on while leaning heavily onto the wall, she was caught up by some of her fellow students.

"Damn, you were done early, weren’t you?!"

She nodded, pushing her second arm through the sleeve and gathering her bag and crutches again.

"The questions were rather basic, I think. And speeds not everything. How many answers were right will be more important."

The men blinked and then grinned, one even going as far as chuckling.

"I'll take that as a yes. You wanna go out for a drink with us?"

She shook her head.

"No, I've still got plenty of things to do today. But thanks."

Turning to go, she ignored the collective sigh of disappointment.

"Some other time, right?"

She lifted one of her crutches in the air in response, not turning around again.

She'd people to pick up from the hospital.

* * *

"Ouch!"

The Doctors started to grin widely.

"Well Mr. Buccaneer, your nerves in the stump may be partially dead, but everything after your shoulder-joint seems to be in best working order."

Buccaneer rubbed his stump and shoulder, looking sour.

"Nice that this seems to be so much fun for you. And I told you, it's just Buccaneer."

Another hearty chuckle.

"Well then, Buccaneer, you'll get another counselling in the next week, where we'll walk you through the whole procedure that's going to happen in the next year. If you still want to go through with it..."

He thought for just a few more seconds, at least while in the room with the Doc. Serious thinking and decision making anyways done with Armstrong.

"I'm still in, if you are."

He was given a one-handed thumbs-up at that.

"Well then, I'll see you next week. We'll send you an appointment-card to your home-address, if that's okay for you?"

He pulled his shirt over his head, an awkward venture with just one arm, but still he managed. Somewhat gruffly he answered, if only because he slowly grew tired.

"That's alright Doc, no place I have to be."

The inquiring stare of the, granted, rather young man opposite of him, seemed at odds with his usual, jovial behaviour.

"Trouble finding a job?"

He grunted a yes.

"I can't promise anything, but I maybe know something for you. But you'll have to give me some time. And you can't count on it."

Buccaneer nodded, gratefully. He was no stranger in this city, had plenty of friends, but in a place as packed with physical labour-jobs as this, being one arm short was a sure-fire way to get not one of them. And if he was honest, he didn't feel comfortable with applying for one of the desk-jobs.

"Thanks Doc, anything helps."

He put his jacket on and said his goodbyes, wondering if Armstrong was already here, already got her bandage-change. If she found the books she searched for, if the test went well and what she got them for dinner. It was so much nicer to think about her, than about the things going wrong.

Stepping out into the hallway, packed with several men and women waiting their turn, all looking in the same direction, he knew Armstrong was already there. She had that ability to draw a crowd’s eye, not just because of her looks, but because of her terrifying aura. And she was just now using it, leaning on the wall opposite of the nurses’ desk, staring the young Lady from a few days ago down. For someone who claimed to never have been jealous, she executed it pretty damn well.

The people he walked passed thought of him as stupid, when he stepped up to her.

"Hey, Ready to go home?"

An icy glance, but he could see the fire in her eyes. Could see the flame tempering itself. She greeted him with a curt nod.

"Bandages changed, food bought. So no objections on my part, but don't you need a new appointment?"

He knew her long enough, had trained all this time, so that his neutral face won't slip. Inwardly he was chuckling though, as for a woman who told him a few nights ago that she was never jealous, she was acting decidedly so. That night she'd even slept as far away in the bed from him as possible, but they'd just ended up curled around the other in the morning again, like they always did, which had seemingly changed her mood for the better.

He'd decided not to poke the subject, even though he admitted to himself, that it rubbed his vanity the right way.

"The Doc said that I'll get appointment-cards with the mail for now, so there's no need."

A corner of her mouth lifted, aside from sarcastically-snorting the only somewhat positive emotion she allowed herself in such a public setting.

"Well then, why are we still standing here? Let's go!"

She didn't wait for him, just hobbled ahead on her crutches, knowing full well he'd catch up.

And he did, walking next to her, his face his usual grim mask. They did not hold hands, walking through North Cities streets, the thought alone absurd because of her crutches, their whole personalities. But sometimes his hand brushed against her arm, her backpack changed to being slung over his shoulder in a movement so smooth that nobody, not even them, properly noticed it. They just fell into some kind of routine, not decided through daily plans, but through a way of treating each other, like they'd known each other for longer than a few years.

"How did the exam go?"

Armstrong huffed, which was a kind of temporary replacement for shrugging since the crutches, and looked at him quite relaxed.

"Fairly easy I'd say. I could write down an answer to every question."

He nodded, not doubting that she'd done well. She knew her shit after all.

"And what did the others say? I mean, everybody knows that _you're_ a smartass..."

Knowing full well what was to come and swerving accordingly, he didn't anticipate the crutch hitting his knee. Gods, those guys in the fantasy novels would sing songs of her "true aim".

Not one of her facial muscles moved, but he could see a hint of triumph in her eyes.

"I think most of them got through it pretty well. At least they all seemed fairly cheerful when they asked if we all should go for a drink, and not like they wanted to drown in their sorrow."

"They wanted you to go with them? You mean to tell me that you haven't scared them away yet?"

He'd anticipated that she'd be asked out, if not by the people from her class, then by individuals not rendered speechless by her demeanour. But he'd hoped, just a little bit, that she'd intimidate everyone into not even asking.

"Why do you sound so surprised? Sherry, Miles, you, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get rid of any of you. I seem to have an unbearably catchy personality."

She did not even look for a second like she was joking. There was no twitching, not a hitch while walking and even the sarcasm in her voice was reined way in. One could think she was serious. He blinked at her, several times, trying to figure it out.

Her irritation rose faster than the gears in his head started to turn.

"Damn it, Buccaneer! It was a joke! The guys like me, because I'm apparently pretty. And as soon as I punched every single one of them twice, they'll like me because I'm smart, or feisty, or something. At least that's how it went with the Central bunch. But I'm living with you now, aren’t I?! So don't even start to get jealous!"

He looked at her, rendered speechless. Rooted to the spot, because if Olivier Armstrong chided you, she did so while standing still, directly in front of you, seemingly larger than a Briggs mountain bear.

And when she huffed and hobbled on, he started to grin. Wide and toothy, because damn, that was the closest to telling him her true feelings he ever got.

In front of their mailbox he found his voice again. The Armstrong/Buccaneer signed tacked onto it always gave him strength.

"So, you can be jealous all you want, but I can't?"

If looks could kill, he'd be down dead on the floor.

"You haven't even met one of the guys, so how do you know if there's something to be jealous about? And for the record, I wasn't jealous!"

"No, you seem entirely happy with the fact that the automail-stations nurse seems to like me. You seem pretty cool with it even."

He knew he was pushing it now. Armstrong was best left alone when in one of her moods, but her icy glare had just been too inviting to ignore. Brushing past him, she went to finally get the mail. The key she quickly found, clinking against the metal, and he watched her pull on the stuck batch of letters with vigour, crutches almost artistically leaned against her leg. Then he heard paper rip and saw something flying, his eyes following it to where it landed. Which kept him from realising that with losing her grip on the paper, Armstrong was also quickly losing her balance. At the last moment he kept her from toppling with a large hand to her back.

He expected the string of expletives rolling from her tongue. Still, he learned something new When she caught herself again and the crutches were pushed into her hands, Buccaneer went to find the thing gone flying. Searching the floor, prying around in the deepest corner of the space under the stairs, he heard her speak behind him.

"Thanks for catching me, big guy. One of the letters was stuck in the opening and tore. You've seen what it was?"

His hand found something and he pulled it towards him, staring open mouthed as soon as the light hit it. He heard Armstrong shuffling around and heard the rustle of paper. Slowly he got up, still not entirely believing what had been send to them. Remembered his grandmother rambling on about signs suddenly, how the gods gave you what you needed, if you only knew how to ask. Armstrong was standing next to the staircase, letters lain down on the dark wood, rifling through them, searching for the torn envelope. And when she finally got it with a triumphant smirk, he watched the colour drain from her face when she read the senders address.

"Hey, are you alright? Was the letter send by Alex? Or Amue, or Strongine? Cathy?"

It worried him that she suddenly seemed so shaken up by it all, the small thing in his hand surely something she'd be happy about.

"Liv?"

Now she snapped out of her reverie and looked up at him, her hand clutching the letter so tight that it crumpled.

"My father sent the letter. What the hell would my father sent me?!"

He could see the handwritten letter pocking out of the envelope, knew that she had to have read some of the words she’d so carefully avoided all this time. He thought it to be the right moment to let the gift dangle from his hand.

She watched the necklace mesmerised, her eyes following the engraved tooth he'd gifted her with so many years ago. He'd not often seen her utterly speechless and decided to take matters into his own hands.

"Well, we can't stand here all day."

Hoisting the backpack down to the ground, he carefully pried the letter from her still trembling hand, collected those on the stairs and stuffed them into it. They all could wait for a few more hours. Then he took the necklace, putting it carefully over her head, pulling her hair free from the leather band that trapped the blonde tresses. His hand lingered on her shoulder for a while after that, and the words simply tumbled from his heart.

"You know you're the only one for me, you know that, right?"

She huffed, irritated, finally looking at him. Eyes usually so easy to read for him, trained in this art for a while now, hooded, with no clear emotion. abruptly turning around with her as she tackled the stairs.

"William Buccaneer, you are a damn sob!"

It didn't sound annoyed at all.

* * *

He was halfway through the door, when a question sprung to his mind.

"Doc, do you know by chance if the coat-shop in the 6th still exists?"

The red-head turned, floppy hair barely held back by the bandana wrapped around his head.

"Think so, yes. But our two days of summer are almost there, so what do you need a coat for?"

Buccaneer was unaware that there was a man sitting in the hallway, listening in on their conversation with interest.

"It's going to snow this night and Armstrong got no proper jacket for weather like this."

"The blonde one that picks you up usually? I thought she's your girlfriend?! Or is Armstrong one of those new, fancy first names?"

The man in the hallway chuckled to himself, as did Buccaneer.

"Listen Doc, it would take ages to explain. If I want to keep her from hypothermia, I have to get going."

"Be sure to explain that to me some other time, must be a tale worth listening. And don't forget to come by tomorrow so I can talk you through the stuff we'll get done next Wednesday!"

Buccaneer just waved and was gone quickly, but the Doc's door remained open and the man in the hallway got up and leaned against the doorframe.

"That's the guy I should take a look at?"

An almost girly shriek and a flying pen later the Doc caught his heartbeat and the man reined in his laughter.

"Heavens, you should wear a bell around the neck!"

Another smirk met the eyes of the exasperated Doctor.

"So, is this the guy? You know, my times rather limited at best."

A last deep breath and the formerly startled man calmed enough to finally answer the questions the Chief of the Briggs Mountain Guard asked him.

"Yup, that's him Clark. Born tribesman, herded caribous for a long time."

"And convinced that it's going to snow tonight. Neil, not everyone who grew up in the deep mountains knows his shit around the weather here."

Doc Neil gestured for Clark to sit down on the gurney, preparing for an examination. He could babble all he wants about little time; an appointment was an appointment.

The, now seated, man pried of his right boot and sock, then set to pulling up his pant-leg.

"I'm just saying that he's a decent guy Clark. He has a hard time finding work and up until now, he's always been right concerning the weather. He knew that it would hail last Friday, way before it started to. And he's a strong, determined guy, I thought you were always in need of those?"

"He's missing an arm Neil. I know, he's here to get automail, but that'll surely take a while. I haven't seen a port yet. What should I do with him?"

There was a moment of pained silence when tools touched a sturdy automail-leg and just when the metal-appendage was removed, Neil talked on, inspecting the leg while doing so.

"Set him on the emergency-phones. He was in Ishval, I know for a fact that all of these guys were trained to act as an emergency-contact. Wouldn’t be so hard to add the details you need up here to what he already knows. And think, approximately three years. You could train him, make sure you have someone who knows his shit when his body is ready for the mountains again."

Clark sighed, almost defeated.

"Neil, he said it's going to snow tomorrow! If anything, the man is mental!"

It was weird to be pointed at with a leg, albeit a metal one, especially if it was your own.

"How about that: If it does indeed snow tonight, you'll give him a chance."

"I can't come by every day Neil, not for some kid you want to thrust upon me."

Another threatening swing with the leg.

"Well, but you have to come by. See this nerve-contact in your automail? It's fried, that's why it responded to you so weirdly. I'll need the night to fix it."

And now you could see the triumphant smile on Doc Neil’s face, because Clarks sigh was now the sound of a man clearly defeated.

"Okay, okay. I'll try it with him, should I slip and fall over snow on my way here tomorrow. But if I don't, you'll design me a new leg!"

Neil’s face was of the kind that lit up when he smiled honestly.

"Deal!"

* * *

He'd gone with the cotton-lined buckskin coat It was made from caribou-hide, well sewn and would keep Armstrong warm until the worst of winter hit. Also it was a warm, dark-brown colour, which would look good on her, he was sure of that. Concluding that he was the one in their relationship with the fashion-sense.

The town-halls bell chimed in the distance and the number of them told him the time. Seven in the afternoon, quite late, Armstrong had to already be at home, wondering where he was. She'd been quite the last two weeks, despite everything going on in their life right now. He'd watched when she took the practical exam, together with tons of other people. He'd never realised that it had grown into a yearly event.

She'd moved around quickly, crutches and all, albeit staying efficient. Each had been given a technical device, ranging from a lorry all the way to a toaster. The task was easy: find the flaw and fix it. She'd gotten a small, normal family car, one of the cheaper kinds available. After a few hours she'd been done, the link to gearbox and engine fixed without a hitch, smaller different issues, a broken headlight, the not working swipes, a flat tire, also taken care of. She'd even cheekily, albeit not looking the part, given the silver knob on the hood a polish and then handed her Prof the protocol. She hadn't been done first, but in the middle of the field and Buccaneer had thought that she'd gotten one of the harder tasks, if only because of the number of problems the vehicle had had, some quite easy to overlook.

The guy with the toaster only got done two minutes before the deadline and Armstrong had just drily remarked on their way home, that she'd have murdered the Prof if he'd appointed her the toaster. At his question if the people didn’t give her anxiety, she remarked that to not have them move all around her seemed to help a whole lot. Not to mention that her mind had been focused on a task, which diverted her attention from the crowd. And from the letter.

Turning another corner, he wondered if she'd soon get info whether one of the business-people in attendance at the practical-exam had any interest to offer her a job. He knew she'd done pretty darn good, had heard the men mumble it to themselves. It would certainly get her mind off of things, because he knew how she was still in her mind going through her father’s letter. She'd read it after they'd gone upstairs that day, in the middle of the night just jumping up and reading it. He'd lain next to her, had felt first-hand her restlessness, seeing as she threw herself from left to right half of the night.

And then she'd sat at the kitchen-table, head in her hands, and breathed. Nothing else, just drawing breath and exhaling it in a slow fashion. Then she'd pressed her hands against her closed eyes. Stress relief it had been and before he could do something, hug her, or ask her anything, she'd thrown the letter at him.

"Read!"

He followed a command when she gave it and had sat down opposite of her. Her father’s words had been kind. Talked of how he loved her, how he wished for her to come back, but understanding what went wrong and why she wouldn’t. There was even a mention of him, how glad her father was that she had someone taking care of her, whether she liked it or not. He'd chuckled at the passage and had felt her gaze burrowing under his skin.

"Found yourself?"

He'd smiled at her, even if just slightly. And then he'd said something that had given her pause, so much so, that she was still caught up in it.

"That's the first time he admitted to having done something wrong, isn’t it? He writes how proud he is of you. How much he loves you. And while i think it's scary that he found out our address, he just told you all of this things, without just coming here and invading your privacy, something you'd hate. I know it's a lot to digest, but isn't that what you always wanted?"

Her gaze had said it all before her mouth ever could.

"I think I don’t know what i want!"

Her voice had been so unlike her, so small and vulnerable. He'd gotten up and taken her hand, steadying her on the way to the bed. He wasn’t sure if she'd fallen asleep during the reminder of the night, but he knew that she'd not moved from his attempt of an embrace.

And she'd stayed rather quite the full two weeks following this incident, too. Her surgery that got rid of more than twenty splinters, did only shortly get her to talk, as she was still dopey from the anaesthesia when he picked her up and took her home. And nothing that she'd said had made much sense anyway, seeing how she'd rambled on about some turtle carrying four elephants and a guy named Mort, which he was almost sure came from the last novel she'd read.

Not even that they'd taken of her cast three days ago, without any forewarning, had made her open up to him. If anything it had made her even more quiet, because of sensory overload, which was whispered in his ear when she immediately pulled her leg away when one of his, granted rather hairy ones, rubbed against hers at night. Walking without the cast seemed to take as much of her concertation as learning to walk with it had. And the sensation of pants scrubbing against your sensitive leg couldn’t be all too pleasant.

He walked past the bus stop and crossed the street, putting the bag down and fumbling with the keys. Jogging up the stairs he remembered an afternoon about three weeks ago, when Armstrong came through the door, just as he stepped out of the bathroom. She'd stopped dead in her tracks and while her gaze on his only towel-clad body had been appreciative, she'd blushed.

The sexual tension between them was slowly raking higher with the space between them naught more than shirts and pants. Nothing had happened as of yet, one of them always stopping softly before more than kissing could take place. She'd once complained to him, whispering into his ear on the couch, how the cast made everything difficult, from using the toilet to relieving stress. He'd blushed, but had understood. He felt self-conscious, a missing arm, a stump feeling often like a phantom-limb, something that it was hard to get in the mood with.

Retaliation for the shower-towel incident had soon followed, Armstrong getting out of bed in the morning now often with an askew tank top. And secretly he knew, that both of them were silently revelling in the tension, waiting for the right moment to let go.

And fumbling with the next key in the next lock, he stepped into their flat. Presented with Armstrong clad in the shortest shorts he'd ever seen. In a totally overheated flat. Cooking.

Now he'd seen everything.

"What the fuck are you doing?!"

Surprise brought out his profanity.

She turned towards him and he took a quick moment to take in her appearance. A shirt, her favourite one with the single "fuck" embroiled in the front, matching the colour of her eyes. The aforementioned short shorts, black, showing off her legs in a most spectacular way. She had no stick-legs, but strong and toned thighs and calves, her previously cast-ridden leg though clearly less trained than her other one. The skin was still very much reddened, scars clearly visible. But he knew she'd have it trained up in no time and he couldn’t wait to see her train with her sword again.

She cooked her head at him, blond hair bound into a messy bun bouncing. With a steady voice she answered him.

"Cocking you imbecile, what else does it look like?!"

He set his bags down, looking over to the tiny build-inn kitchen. Eggs frying in one pan, bacon in the other.

"You should flip it, it's starting to burn."

With a grumpy look she went over to the pans and flipped the food.

"It wasn’t burning. I thought you like it crisp?!"

Meanwhile Buccaneer was shrugging out of his jacket, grinning. She'd gotten better at cooking, there was no point in denying it. At first you could count on her burning everything besides cereal, which she turned overly soggy with milk. But slowly she was getting the hang of it, practicing each afternoon when he came home later than her. The stuff she made now, was edible.

"I was just joking; the food is looking good. But what's up with the heating? Something broke?"

Hip pushing into the kitchen-counter, she looked at him.

"I had the genius idea to wear my pair of jeans today. After a whole day of maddening itching I needed a break. To warm for you?"

He pulled the sweater over his head.

"I'll manage. How was University today?"

They did not just ask the other directly if they were feeling better. Armstrong had once pointed out to him, what kind of a nonsensical question this was, especially as you had to have already seen that the other was feeling better, or you'd never even ask it. But he knew that something good had happened today, something that had scattered some of her worries better than words could. However kind you were, some things could just be helped with acting and not talking.

She stirred the eggs some more, the muscles in her arms moving. Those were as enticing as on the first day he met.

"Quite good. Finally started with some of the advanced stuff, got our grades for the practical and then had to talk with the guys offering jobs."

He put the new coat over the back of a chair and grabbed plates and cutlery. While setting the table he waited for her to continue.

"I'll be working further up, in the northernmost part of the city. It's called the Brigg's Workshop, apparently they're the main technical-maintenance-provider for Fort Briggs, hence the name, but the Prof said they do all kinds of stuff. You know something about them?"

Setting down the last item, the table mat for the pans, he furrowed his brow in thought.

"Well, they're mostly known for their work on the Fort's maintenance, but as far as I know their Boss always had lots of influence. Important business in the region and such. Lots of jobs."

Armstrong nodded, her hair-bun again bobbing endearingly. He held himself from telling her, as she'd cut it off immediately. The pans found their way on the table, as well as slices of bread.

Both of them dug in.

"You happy with the job?"

Armstrong sighed through a mouthful of fried eggs. Bad habits die hard.

"Not unhappy, but the Prof made it clear that they were the only ones willing to take me in. Apparently the Boss lost his life in Ishval and since then the shop is spiralling downwards. His wife is now leading it, but she herself said today that she has little knowledge about the technical parts of the job, always having worked on the administration and advertising side of it. She needs someone who can step in as consulting engineer."

He swallowed his bite of bacon, before speaking.

"You made a good impression at the practical, amongst the man just as much as amongst the women. Probably they knew that you'd not be content in a bow-down-and-do-as-I-say-job. You're too talented for that. And a natural born Boss."

"So I'll have to kick some ass there?"

And now he chuckled, which earned _him_ a kick under the table.

"You do wherever you go. Knowing you, they'll be loyal only to you sooner or later."

The rest of the meal he told her about his doctor’s appointment, how he would tomorrow get the last information’s.

"You wanna come tomorrow?"

Armstrong nodded, fishing the last piece of egg out of the pan.

"Sure, why not. But I have class in the evening, will we be done before that?"

"Think so, the doc said to come by during the morning tomorrow."

He smiled at her, which she requited with a smile of her own. The gladness he felt for her mood having lifted as much as it did was hard to put in words. She finally seemed somewhat relaxed again, which helped him to relax too. It was these moments which made him so sure that they'd prevail, both willing to work on themselves to become something more than before.

The table was cleared quickly and without much fuss, the two of them working hand in hand flawlessly. Which meant that Armstrong now had her hands on the coat, looking at him kind of confused.

"A bit small for you, don't you think?"

"It's for you. There's going to be snow tomorrow."

She was looking at him questioningly.

"The weather station gave out a snow-warning?"

He shook his head, her eyes transfixed on him.

"No, all weather stations are saying the temperatures are going to stay the same."

"But you say differently?"

He nodded. Armstrong put the coat on the hanger and searched for her shawl, finding it with a triumphant grunt and pushing it into the coats sleeve.

"You're not going to question that? You don’t think I'm crazy?"

She shrugged.

"I just thought there was no use in stating the obvious."

For a few moments he was looking at her dumbstruck, then he started to laugh loudly. He dragged a hand through his hair, getting stuck.

"You need to get a haircut again."

Smiling she helped him with untangling his hand, one of her hands softly wandering through his hair after doing so. He'd stuck with the Mohawk, even though he'd missed going to the barber for a few weeks now. His hair-strip had grown long and unruly, beard and head-fuzz were prominent. The only thing looking good was his long ponytail.

"You're going to grow yours out?"

She bopped the bun.

"I thought so. Always liked it best when it's long. Or you got better ideas?"

He shook his head no and moved over to the couch, still smiling and feeling awfully content. They could cut him open all they wanted the day after tomorrow, that feeling they simply couldn’t take.

The rest of the afternoon was spent calmly, both of them reading their respective books. And before going to sleep he even got her to turn the heating down and to open a window, because after 10 o'clock he had to make a conscious effort not to melt.

Half of the night was spent sleeping well. That was until Buccaneer turned around, just to find Armstrong gone. After gathering his wits about and his feet under him, he found her hanging half out of the living room window, watching the snow fall.

"Why're youp?"

His tongue needed some time to wake up too, and with Armstrong not answering, he stepped closer to her. Softly his arm snaked around her waist.

"Liv, you alright?"

She leaned into him and he revelled in the feel of her against him. Her voice was unusually soft when she spoke.

"It's snowing."

It was indeed, not to his surprise. Quite heavily too, albeit the flakes falling slowly, their size extraordinarily big.

He pulled her even more into him and watched the snow with her, until he felt the goose bumps rise along her skin.

"You're getting cold."

It was crazy how nimble she could be, turning around in his arms. Just for a moment his eyes were open, until he felt her soft lips meet his. Then they closed of their own accord, just as his heart started to beat faster.

After what seemed like an eternity they stopped for air. The wind blowing in through the window now blew a welcome coolness over their skins as they kissed yet again. Short and tight-lipped kisses turned to open-mouthed ones and it felt like her hands were burning paths along his skin. He waited for the inhibition to let him put a stop to it and when that didn’t happen he waited for Liv to put a stop to everything.

But hands did not stop wandering over his body and his heart did not stop beating out of his chest.

So neither of them stopped until the sun rose in the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should I, or should I not get into detail about what follows?
> 
> Read & Review guys, or you'll never see improvement ;)


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that it took so long guys, my life is quite hectic at the moment.  
> I`ll try my best and post the next chapter sooner.  
> Thanks for Reading and please rewiev if you can :)

 "You look like you're going to be sick. Sure you want to sit through the lecture?"

She knew she looked like being sick. She knew she was going to be sick. How couldn’t she, after getting told in great detail, how they would cut Buccaneer open tomorrow. They’d open him up basically from hip to stump and from there to his sternum. They’d exchange some of his ribs for ones made of metal for crying out loud. They’d strengthen his collarbone and build an interior holding frame for the soon to come port, which they would bolt onto several of his bones. And after all of that was healed, they’d do the same thing with his spine.

Just thinking about it made her skin crawl. Unintentional wounds never left her queasy, but willfully cutting someone open did.

“Don’t worry, as soon as the Prof starts to talk about parallel circuits, I’ll probably feel better. But doesn’t it bother you, all the screwing and bolting and exchanging parts of your body  
?”

He shrugged, grinning weirdly.

“Well, a few more months, depending on how fast I’ll heal, and I’ll have a second arm again. Beats having a phantom limb in my books. And I wouldn’t want it to fall off, so the bolting seems necessary. And I’ve never minded screwing.”

A sharp elbow to his gut had his grin widening by a fraction.

“You’re a pig William Buccaneer, just so you know!”

He laughed heartily, just as the clock started to chime. It was amazing, how fast he could don a serious expression.

“You sure you’re gonna be alright?”

“Go home, relax and make sure I get something to eat when I get home. I’ll be fine.”

She was ready to go inside, when she felt his hand on her wrist, pressing against her pulse point. Damn fool probably still thought that she didn’t know what was up with that.

A sudden burst of patience had her speaking calmly.

“Buccaneer, I’ll be just fi…”

Just to be interrupted.

His lips on hers of course were a rather welcome distraction from what she was about to say, making her forget it in an instant. She could only concentrate on his lips on hers, the smell of him and the damn feel of his trine damned big hand.

Only when the kiss ended and her eyes fluttered open again, she remembered that she wasn’t fond of public kissing. Neither of Buccaneers back, walking towards the door, lone arm raised in a goodbye-gesture, surely sporting a shit-eating grin on his face. She turned around, stepping into the lecture-hall, knowing that her cheeks were tinted red. He knew that she blushed when he kissed her and he’d done it on fucking purpose. Maybe even to piss the metaphorical post in front of her classmates, just to make sure that they knew what they were up again. Fool. She had to get back at him.

Stepping through the doorway, her complete course scrambled to their seats, away from the door.

Before they or she could say anything, their Prof walked in right behind her and started the lecture. She noticed the others sliding her notes, whispering to each other, looking at her. Instead of listening in, or even touching one of the little, folded strips of paper, she focused on the Prof and took notes. She would start working soon, would need every bit of information she could get and had, all things considered, enough on her plate already, without a bunch of boys too curious for their own good.

She would stand beside Buccaneer, with or without automail. It was his decision and if she imagined herself in his situation, she’d probably do the same. It was simply that the thought of metal bolted to your bone, of foreign objects bigger than an earring piercing you skin, had always left her queasy. Sherry had found it hilarious when she studied with her, watching her cringe every time an extremely invasive practice was quizzed. Her swordsmanship-teacher, an old man of over seventy years when she started, had giggled when she screamed “yuck” at his mention of running people through with a sword. Albeit these qualms had evaporated over the years.

A small sigh escaped her and she directed her attention back to the Prof. As soon as he was operated, there was the task of healing. She’d help him as much as she was able to and would get used to the automail, at the same pace as him. She left it at that and started listening again.

After three hours, the tall man dismissed the class and wished them good luck with the start of their jobs, then stated that he would now be in his office for an hour, should anybody have any questions. Leaving the room, he side eyed the small pile of notes that had accumulated during the lecture, grinning to himself.

Instantly, she was mugged.

“You never told us you had a boyfriend!”

“We slipped you notes, why didn’t you look at them?!”

“He is your boyfriend, right? Or did he just do that without consent?”

“We’ll take care of him if you want to!”

Slowly and with care she put her notebook and pencils away, took her sweet time with freeing her hair from the confines of her pullover it had snagged in, accidently pulling up her necklace with it. She’d worn it every day since she got it back, the feeling of it for the first time touching her skin again, akin to coming home to an old friend, as weirdly as it sounded concerning jewelry. It was the only thing she never took off and always had with her.

What irritated her more than their questions though, was that the group of overly curious people around her gasped partly upon seeing it. The questions stopped, she felt eyes fixated on the hanger that Buccaneer had gifted her with what felt a lifetime ago. One could faintly hear hopes shattering. Her interest was picked.

It was Arag who spoke first, a rather lanky young man, with a curly mob of hair and a strong drachman accent.

“You could’ve just told us that you’re engaged.”

She felt her facial features derail, trying to process this information and the implications of this information.

Meanwhile, the people around her started talking again.

“With the southwestern tribes it’s just a confession of love though.”

“Yeah, and the tribes north of the border regard it as a sign of friendship!”

“With the north-eastern ones it means engagement though…”

“Yes, but most of them are quite honest with the fact, that the meaning derailed somewhat as soon as those gifts were made outside of the community. It’s recognized there that you should ask and not assume.”

“Did he look north-eastern?”

“How do you look north-eastern?”

“He looked like he could crush us if he wanted too…”

“Armstrong, is everything alright?”

In all honesty, she felt weird. She’d not known any of this, had taken the tooth as a gift, applying her own meaning to it afterwards. She _had_ noticed some of the signs on it being the same as the ones tattooed on Buccaneers legs, but they came from the same culture and language, so that was to be expected. Her irritation showed on her face.

“Ohhh, she didn’t know!”

It sounded compassionate, not taunting.

“Who’s secret about something like that?!”

“I heard the caribou-people from the north-east sometimes give those away as a gift.”

“It’s viewed more as a wish, if I remember it correctly. Like, you give it someone you like, maybe even love, and hope that the other person will one day decide on how serious he or she wants to take the gift. And then your relationship can pan out accordingly. It’s like “what happens happens”.”

“Would be too anxiety-inducing for me.”

“I think it’s romantic.”

“And that’s why you can choose.”

She felt their eyes on her, not caring about it in the slightest. Her irritation rose, along with something else, too almost unbearable levels. The man’s gal was unbelievable. Putting on shawl and coat, grabbing her bag, she got ready to leave.

“Gentleman, if you’ll excuse me. I’ve got to talk to a very stupid man.”

She left, her departure as glorious as her entrances usually were, whether she noticed or not. Her hair, an inch past her shoulder by now, whipped behind her, her coat flaring dramatically.

They did not dare to say something more, no questions, no nothing. Looks were exchanged.

“Did any of you ever notice that she’s quite scary, too?”

“Yeah, pretty-scary even.”

“You’ve made worse puns before Arag, way worse.”

* * *

 

A force stronger than the frigid winds of the deepest winter, trying to scatter the people at borders, mountains or shores. Able to move immovable objects with her will alone. The mere intention to change pre-existing conditions enough to bring on change, to rally people, to strike fear into the hearts of those in power. Someone like her came around once in a century and just to meet her in his lifetime had been pure chance. That they were together in every sense, was mind-blowing.

It was terrifying to feel this raw power concentrated at him.

Her anger at him knew no bounds, at least now and yet he wasn’t entirely sure what he´d done wrong. Something apparently, but what eluded him.

She´d just came in through the door, an angry aura coming in with her that immediately took up and filled the room. He´d stirred the pasta in the pot, not meaning any harm, and had found herself standing in front of him rather suddenly, radiating waves of fury.

“You thought I wouldn’t notice, did you!”

Her hat flew in one corner, her shawl in the other. The coat was put onto the hanger with such force, that he shortly feared for the fabric. The backpack hit the floor and he could hear the contents rattle.

He poured off the pasta and mixed it with the sauce bubbling in the pan. Olivier was walking through the flat like a tigress all the while, bellowing angry phrases every now and then.

She punched a wall and he shortly feared for her knuckles. After looking at the wall, he tried to remember if he had any friends who knew how to repair a wall. He decided, while still using most of his concentration for not tipping the pan over while putting it on the table, that he should really ask her what was wrong. Not that this was a particularly hard or new thought, but she was the kind of person that just told you if something was wrong.

The fact that she wasn’t outright telling him what had her so angry, was making even him anxious about the issue.

Whatever it was.

“Olivier, what`s the matter?”

His honest question went unheard, instead Olivier stopped stomping through their flat and looked at the table.

“Where`s the cutlery?!”

He doubted that the missing cutlery was the reason for her anger. Yet, he lacked the bravery to tell her that usually the one who didn’t cook set the table and that, well, it was her turn to get the forks. So he moved swiftly and got what was needed, silently filled the plates and sat down, deciding to dig in while also waiting patiently for her to say what was wrong.

She sat down opposite of him an angry huff.

Two, three mouthfuls of food and she threw the fork on top of her plate.

“You honestly thought I`d never notice, right?! Do you even phantom how humiliating it was for me today, to get told what your _gift_ meant by a bunch of boys?”

William Buccaneer did not know where his calm came from. Yet, he utilized it and tried, again, to get to the heart of the matter.

“Olivier, I`m sure we can work this out, but would you please tell me what`s the matter?”

His calm did not skip to her.

“Oh, we`ll work this out! Thinking I wouldn’t notice…”

She was back on her feet again, walking from left to right quickly, pulling out the necklace he got her. She very nearly shoved it in his face.

“My classmates told me what this means in the different regions! And you told me where you came from, so I know what it means now and what it meant back then! And I know you`re the old-fashioned type when it comes to stuff like that! Why _the fuck_ wouldn’t you talk with me about something like that!”

He`d been found out and it showed on his face. Eyes wide, mouth hanging open he scrambled for words. His calmness evaporated into a mixture of nervousness and, surprisingly, anger.

“Maybe because I wanted to give you space!? You probably haven’t noticed, but when someone tries to talk to you about things concerning love and stuff, you always block the conversation.”

She threw her hands in the air and walked to the other end of the room.

“Yes, like that exactly! Don’t walk away from me! Talk to me!”

“Fine, then I`ll talk to you! Don’t you think that love, engagement even, should be something you talk about? Maybe talk with the person you want to start a life? Maybe talk about the things you gift to or put under peoples pillows at night? How about that?”

Now he threw his hands in the air, this anger something new to him. He was a calm person when the situation called for it, tried to think before doing something, at least most of the time. But this unbridled feeling was something else.

“I wanted to talk to you about all of this! Is it so hard to imagine that I maybe chickened out? That I was afraid of your answer? Maybe you haven’t noticed, but our start hadn’t been all that great!”

She was a couple of inches smaller and yet loomed tall in front of him. Yet, it was no violent anger radiating from her. Just anger.

“You hit on me drunkenly, of course this wasn’t a great start! But I thought we`d left that behind! And I thought that you fucking know that you can talk to me about anything if you need to.”

Olivier tempered her voice to a more reasonable level, simply because her anger was slowly evaporating. Yet, not completely. Buccaneers flared in contrast and, her own irritation leaving her, she observed his closely, the experience something new for her.

“Of all the people I know I`d have thought you`d understand the best how hard it is to tell someone you love them! I tried to tell you that I love you with the damn shirt, but it only got you in trouble! I tried to tell you that I love you with that tooth and it only got you in trouble! I tried to find a flat together with you because I god damn love you and it gave you trouble! And all those people blamed you for wanting to move in with a man unmarried and gave you shit for it, not one of them gave me shit! But it was me that loved you so much and talked you into it! Has it ever crossed your mind that I had trouble talking about it simply because I exclusively got you in trouble with anything I do?!”

He did not back away, just remained standing tall and rigid and staring at her in the middle of their kitchen-area. She looked him up and down, huffed and then screamed right back.

“Oh, so just because you got me in trouble you cannot tell me that you love me? You poor thing! That you could get in trouble simply because you`re together with me is slipping your mind? How long my families reach is? That they could make your life a living hell at any moment? You could’ve gone and live with your parents doing the fucking war and yet you went into that fucking desert! Would you`ve done the same if we hadn’t met or known each other I ask myself every night! How different your life could’ve been without me? But no, you’ve got good reason to not tell me that you fucking love me! I`ve got good reason to not tell you that I fucking love you!”

He reached for her, softly, and took hold of her shoulder. She screamed on, undeterred, already feeling herself going hoarse.

“If you`d just asked me, I`d have told you that I`d god damn love being engaged to you! That I don’t care what other people say, or write or anything else! But I would have liked to know your feelings first! And I would like it if you just talked to me about you! So be fucking honest with me in the future!”

He pulled her into him, just because he wanted to, because she let him. His anger had left him, making way for a weird mixture of feelings. Shame, hurt, calm and love in abundance. Being so angry, just screaming out his concerns had been cathartic, even though he doubted that I´d been the best way to work through their problems. But it had worked and he vowed himself to just talk when something troubled him in the future. He felt Olivier`s arm snake around him.

“So, you really love me?”

Her voice was a bit muffled, exhaustion creeping into it.

“Yes, you moron.”

“And you`d really love to be engaged to me?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

He tightened his hug and put a light kiss to her hair.

“We`re weird, aren’t we?”

She looked up at him, raising an eyebrow.

“Only a tiny bit.”

He grinned and then slowly let go.

“We should eat.”

They went back over to the table, sitting down in front of their respective plates.

The silence they ate in held for a good ten minutes, then the ridiculousness of the situation hit Olivier first. She began to laugh, quietly at first, but getting louder with every second. The noodle on her fork shook in tune.

At first, Buccaneer stared, mesmerized. Than it hit him that she was laughing, truly laughing, for the first time since Ishval. He felt something give inside of him and laughed with her, not caring about tomorrow.

Today was fine as it was.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, there is very little happening in this chapter, because hey, who ever gets around to a plot?! But I hope you like it anyway and as always: R&R!

"What do you mean "he was moved"?"

She wasn’t angry, or even slightly irritated. Just unbelieving. Maybe a tad bit scared, Neil thought to himself. He`d expected her to come in to see him, they`d set a time and everything, when she`d accompanied Buccaneer this morning.

"The staff of the North City Military Hospital came in to collect him two hours ago, claiming that patients in intensive care, whose treatment is paid for by the Ishval Military Reparations Fund, have to be moved to one of the hospitals affiliated with them. Our lawyers are checking this as we speak. So, they moved him there, while the team and I were in the conference room, discussing the further treatment. One of the nurses informed us of the going-ons as soon as possible, but we couldn’t do anything but verbally protest."

He was irritated. Even more so, when he thought about the risk it involved to move a patient that had to be considered unstable. Olivier Armstrong was looking at him with wide eyes, probably not used to him being emotional in any other way than humorous. He could see resolve take over her eyes.

"Which way to the Military Hospital?"

He wondered if these guys knew what they`d gotten themselves in to.

"You can drive with me, I was just about to go there. No way in hell I`m leaving my patient to them! The people there may be just as competent, but automail-implementation is a highly individualized procedure."

She was hot on his heels on the way to his car and only when they`d driven off, she proceeded to ask more questions.

"Why was he put in intensive care?"

"The case I`ve told you two about in the pre-op-information session set in. The short version is that when we worked on Buccaneers ribcage, blood loss and trauma send his heart out of rhythm. It wouldn’t find it on its own again, so we artificially stopped and started it again. Everything was fine afterwards and that we put him in intensive care is honestly only precaution and hospital policy. He got through the complete procedure without a hitch otherwise and has the best possible healing-prognosis."

She huffed next to him, relaxing somewhat.

"Was he awake before being moved?"

Neil shifted slightly in his seat, not caring that Miss Armstrong saw the annoyance scatter over his face.

"He was in the process of waking up, something we treat rather delicately usually. You never know if the painkillers given beforehand were dosaged properly, as everybody reacts to them differently, and so we normally make sure that the person is free of pain as soon as he or she is fully awake. Now the Military Hospitals stuff isn`t made up of morons, very competent even, so they`ll hopefully monitor him closely, but it could still be a shock to him to wake up someplace else than discussed. Not to mention that he was in intensive care and considered unstable for transport!"

"You said that putting him in intensive care had been pure pre-caution?"

She was wary, he heard that. And to himself he wondered, why Buccaneer was moved, what the Military Hospital gained from it. They were full to the brim, just like the Public Hospital and normally there never were any problems concerning the automail-patients. Hell, most newbies he treated now should have the exact same thing happening to them then!

"Yes, and the chances of anything happening are small. But we can’t ignore that his heart stopped beating only a few hours before, artificially stopped or not, and that his surgery was almost as invasive as possible. His body had to take a lot today and the chances of it rebelling get higher with everything we do to it."

They drove in silence for a short while, until something occurred to him.

"Just between us now, simply because the mere notion could get us in trouble. Have you two had any run-ins with the military recently? Fighting over costs or tuition-coverage?"

She thought for a moment, the hospital coming into view. And now he could feel the rising of anger, however small.

"I`d say nothing out of the ordinary. There was no discussion concerning our medical costs or my tuition, simply letters of approval. Buccaneer even had a military official speaking with him about his official and honorable expulsion from the military back in East City. And as I wasn’t even officially a member, engineers treated as private contractors, there was no talk afterwards. A blue-coat stopped me at the door at work today, but I guess he did that with everybody. Or maybe every day, I wouldn’t know, it`s been my first day there."

He nodded, steeling himself for the coming discussions.

"I guess we`ll find out what all of that`s about now."

He parked and they stepped out of the car. She ghosted behind him yet again, a force to her step that made him hope that the people in the hospital had a damn good explanation for what was going on.

Stopping at the front desk, the hospital around them busy, but thankfully not the emergency-kind of busy, he looked at the blonde next to him for a second, while waiting for the nurse to arrive with the people who could tell them more. She was looking stern, lips pressed tightly together and if he wasn’t mistaken, he saw her hands shaking just the tiniest bit. Of course, she was nervous because of Buccaneer, that was not even a question to him, but he had to wonder if there wasn’t something more going on with her. He knew that Buccaneer had taken plenty of troubles home with him from Ishval, he had seen his file after all, but hers was off limits to him. But he realized now, that it was probably almost as thick as her boyfriends.

"Do you want to sit down?"

He was a Doctor, staying out of people’s business was hard for him, health-wise at least. An almost murderous gaze had him thinking that he should probably start learning to keep his mouth shut. Her tone brooked no contradiction.

“Not until I know what’s going on.”

He continued to watch her like a hawk, just to make sure that nothing happened and was relieved for a short moment, when a nurse finally neared them, already a sour looking Doctor in tow. He knew the man, met him at a conference some months back, but what set him on edge was the man trailing behind the two. A blue-coat, the embellishments on his uniform distinguishing him as a Colonel. Next to him he felt Armstrong stiffen.

The Military Doc spoke, quick and on edge.

“You are here because of concern for Mr. Buccaneer? He is stable, but will stay in intensive care for a few days at least. My staff informed you over the telephone about our right to move automail-patients how we see fit, didn’t they?”

The way the man looked at them over the rim of his glasses, pissed even him off. Armstrong next to him seemed to be nearing her boiling point and the nurse standing between the rude Doctor and the huge Major, looked like she was ready to flee.

The feeling that something was fishy intensified and he pinned the guy down with an angry look he didn’t even know he possessed.

“I was informed of that, yes! But this doesn’t explain anything. You are aware that the condition Mr. Buccaneer is in is highly critical?! Moving him was and is a risk to his wellbeing, his heart could’ve given out, he is prone to infection now and let’s don’t even think about the possibility of his body rejecting the implants!”

The other man was losing his patience, that much was clear. The Colonel next to him though, seemed to be calm personified.

“I don’t know how you handle such things in the Public Hospital, but not one automail-patient ever suffered from an infection while here. We are the cleanest facility in…”

They’d never know what the guy was about to say, because next to him Armstrong finally snapped. In the calm, terrifying way she had, speaking carefully and calculated, but with a force to her voice that had some recruits walking the halls in the distance flinch.

She was neither looking at the Doc, nor at the nurse or him, but pinning down the Colonel with a fierce gaze.

“What is the reason for all of this Colonel Grand?”

The man’s voice was deep, equally as calm, but missed the force that had you obey every command without question. Neil thought to himself, that the man had seemingly only waited for her to speak up.

“As my colleague here said, it is fully within our rights to move automail patients that we pay for to our premises. Though I’m sure that we can resolve this matter quickly, if you’d be willing to talk with me in my office?”

Anger entered her voice, however slight, and he was amazed at how well she utilized her fury.

“Are you telling me that if I talk with you about recruiting, you’d be willing to move him back to the public hospital? Treat him better, perhaps? That’s blackmail and you know it!”

Colonel Grand remained calm, but looked a little bit pinched at her mention of blackmail. Many a blue-coat followed his orders, whether he or she liked them. But Neil had never seen a man before, who let the distaste for an order shine through so clearly, even if only for a second.

“I have not said any such thing, only that if you’d be willing to talk with me in private, the matter can maybe be resolved more quickly.”

He was interrupted by the Doc next to him, elbowing him into the hip, given their size-difference. The man pointed at a finger of his left hand and the Colonel now wore a look of utter disdain. He spoke on, voice dripping with it.

“And I ought to remind you that the rules for visitors are stricter in this hospitals station for intensive care than at the one Doctor Robinson is working at. Only direct family is allowed, as well as husbands or wives. The people in charge of the patient’s treatment are too, of course. You and Mr. Buccaneer are not married, if I remember correctly?”

The blonde’s eyebrows shot up, tone snide.

“Eloped!”

The fellow Doctor choose this moment to start speaking again, voice rich with righteousness.

“See, you can’t visit him! So, I’d advise you to follow Colonel Grand and get this over with?”

Ignoring the man’s highly unprofessional behavior, Armstrong turned to him, visibly more angered, but thinking quickly. Pinning Grand down with a hard look, he thought that there’d been a sly smile on her face, if only for a split-second.

“Seeing as Doctor Robinson oversees his treatment, he will be allowed in?”

It filled him with a wonderful and entirely unprofessional feeling of glee when his fellow Doctor started sputtering, red in the face. The Colonel and the nurse just looked on, the former obviously fighting his own smile, the latter also looking somewhat pleased.

Unwillingly the man agreed with her.

“Yes, he would.”

Neil did not even for a second try to fight his smile upon this revelation.

“Well then, I’d like to see my patient!”

The nurse showed him the way, the military Doc following after a glowering look directed at Colonel Grand, who’d spilled the beans concerning this particular rule. He’d see Buccaneer now, would make sure to see him every day at least once until this farce ended.

Looking back, he saw the Colonel leaning down to speak lowly with Armstrong.

* * *

The second she’d seen Grand, she’d known what was going on.

She’d disregarded the blue-coat at work for a common recruiter, had only learned a few days later, that he turned up at the same time every morning that she did. After a few days of brashly brushing the guy off, her colleagues, talking to her with animosity before, started treating her somewhat normally. Only after seeing the Colonel in the Military Hospital, she’d understood that the guy was only there for her, wanted to recruit her into the military forces. Buccaneer was simply used as a bargain-chip, much to her chagrin.

She’d told Grand to turn tail in the hospital, knew him since she was ten years old, the man back then being her father’s adjutant. He’d returned her to her father, after she’d shown up at a recruitment-office on her sixteenth birthday. Had seen her a couple of days before she’d been shipped to Ishval, a message from her father in his pocket, one she’d ripped apart without reading. Had offered his condolences when she’d woken up in the last base camp, Sanders dead and gone.

And standing in the hospital, watching Neil go and check on Buccaneer, he’d leaned down and whispered to her. Disregarding the fact that the way that he leant down was agonizingly patronizing, his words were as aggravating as always, too. Buccaneer was equally as big as him, but never used his bulk in such a way.

The powers that were, wanted her to join the military forces again, after reviewing the files and reports from Ishval. She was apparently a good tactician, natural leader, able-bodied and combat trained, not to mention that she spoke not only amestrian, but areugan and cretan, too. That was as much as Grand told her, to whom she didn’t mention that she was in the, albeit secret, process of learning drachman, just so she could talk with Buccaneers family.

She’d scoffed at him, of course. Told him to get lost and to leave her alone. She’d wait until she could visit Buccaneer, or until he was moved back to the public hospital. Had asked one of the nurses politely where a good place to sit down and wait was and if she was allowed to work while waiting. And after some kind words and a cup of coffee handed to her, she sat in a waiting room adjacent to the intensive-care-hallway, going through her coursework and paperwork from the Briggs Workshop.

When the hospital was closed for visitors for the night, a nurse would stick his or her head in, telling her that it was time for her to go home. She’d pack up then, sleep somewhat restless, missing his snoring more than she expected, and be back after work, taking the bus to get through the city. The commute took it’s time, Workshop and Military Hospital on the opposite ends of the city and as the light summer-snow hadn’t let up, walking back at night, took even longer than usual too. But she got more work done than usual, met with Doc Neil daily and learned that Buccaneer was sitting upright after two days, alive and well, though black and blue from the bruises that went with the procedure. He helped them slip notes, as well as two other nurses, and after the first week she felt at least a resemblance of calm again. At the start of week two, Neil cursing every day now as intensive care was uncalled for by now, Grand slipped her a note attached to the bottom of a coffee cup, having probably coerced her favorite nurse into doing so.

Only a time and place were written on it, the latter even in a somewhat scripted kind of way, the place one you only knew when you walked around on foot a lot. It was on her way home, time fitting too and she knew she couldn’t escape him. Though not fearing him in any way, she’d kicked him in the shins hard enough at age eleven to have his eyes water, she was fed up with apparently no one taking no for an answer.

She was stomping through the snow that night, backpack heavy and coat warm against her neck, saying nothing when a tall man fell in step beside her, so smoothly that no one out on the streets would’ve even noticed it. He’d forgone the dress-blues, exchanged them for civvies and huge dark coat, almost looking classy, weren’t it for that awful mustache he prided himself in so much. They walked in silence for a short while, which she used to strengthen her resolve on the matter.

She’d not join the military. Not now and not ever. She’d seen what the genocide in Ishval had done to people, first and foremost to the Ishvalans. They were hunted down in every city, if settlements existed, little more than refugee camps surely, they were spoken about in hushed voices only. Their culture was basically outlawed, mothers and fathers with mixed children, even if only a drop of Ishvalan blood showed in them, hid their little ones with care, many leaving the country. The one land they truly wanted to live in was in ruins, every edge and plain, every grain of sand, painted red with the knowledge of a people that was to be eradicated. Seemingly for no other reason than being able to.

Of course, she thought of Sanders, Karley, Sherry and many others too. Of Buccaneer and of herself. Limbs and sleep were lost, conscience weighing heavy with guilt. The knowledge that they’d lost their innocence out there, had helped with making others lose theirs too. That whatever they did, their hands would never be clean of the blood they’d helped shed.

But those worries they had, her amestrian friends had, were different, she at least knew where they were. Her Ishvalan friends, people from her time at college, her favorite nanny as a child, even Miles. They all were gone, not to be found.

And everybody seemed to act like they’d never existed at all.

“There is talk of sending him to Central for further treatment.”

Any outsider would think they were talking about the weather from his tone, yet what he just told her shook her to the core. She held onto her neutral mask, the one she always wore outside of the privacy of their home. Looked at Grand seemingly nonchalant, his voice not having given away if he meant his statement as a threat or as an honest try to help.

His mouth set into a thin line, expression serious, had her look away again.

“What do they want me so desperately for? Has my father his hand in this?”

She made it sound like she’d asked about his families’ wellbeing.

“In all honesty? I don’t know. It’s got something to do with the reviewed files, but also with your studies apparently. If you were to join, they’d let you continue with them. But everything you do, every invention or improvement of existing technology, would automatically belong to them.”

A man passed them, coat wrapped tightly around himself, and when she felt his eyes on her, she faked a smile up at Grand.

“So, there’s a snitch somewhere near me?”

He coughed into his fist.

“Apparently. Probably in your class, workplace we can rule out I think. You’re there for too short a time.”

“I’ll secure my notes and sketches then. What can I do to get Buccaneer out of the militaries grasp?”

She sidestepped a small dog, glancing at a delis clock in passing. She’d have to be up early tomorrow, there’d be little time to set a plan in motion.

“I’d say write to your father, have him throw his weight around a bit. But I guess this is out of the question, seeing that he doesn’t seem to know that you’re eloped?”

It became harder to keep her tone neutral.

“Don’t act coy, you know we aren’t talking. Doesn’t seem to stop him, though. And concerning the latter: That’s a rather recent development.”

“Then try to talk to anybody else who could throw their weight around for you. Maybe your Boss, relatives still talking to you, friends within in the military. They do want you, but they’re not willing to step onto too many toes for it.”

To those walking near them it seemed like he was looking at her, but she saw that he was simply scanning the other side of the street for faces he knew.

“Would the press be an option?”

He sighed, disguise not faltering for a second, but becoming dangerously real.

“A dangerous one, yes. You know how it can be.”

She thought to herself, that Basque Grand had learned at least some things from her father, thinking critically being one of them. Their silence held for a bit, until her building came into view. By his tone alone you could tell, that the question he was about to ask was plaguing him for a while now.

“Why were you so convinced that your father had a hand in all of this?”

She shrugged under her coat, turning the key and already halfway inside before she answered.

“Just something about your face.”

In front of which she promptly closed the door.

* * *

 

“God, you look like you’ve been hit by a truck!”

At the beginning of week three, a Friday, they had him put on some clothes she’d brought in for him during the week, let him leave his room and readied a medical transport. A nurse rushed towards her a few minutes before his door opened, smiling from ear to ear. Almost dragged her towards the door, watched with many of her colleagues how they quietly, smiling widely, greeted each other. Their hands brushed only a little when she took away his bag, watching like a hawk his stilted movements. While sat down in the otherwise empty transporter, they were left alone for suspiciously long minutes and not caring about the open door, she’d taken his face in her hands and kissed him. Ignoring the cheers and swoons from inside the hospital.

“Sherry, you said the exact same thing, every day of your stay. Every time you step through this door and see me.”

She’d written a letter to her brother and siblings, but hadn’t set in motion anything much, except for remaining staunchly against talking with Grand further. Of course, she’d brushed off several other blue-coats too, many trying to talk with her in the waiting room. She decided not to dwell on it all too much, did not want to think about her father maybe having intervened. Instead focused on planning what to do should this happen again, Buccaneers next operation right around the corner once he’d healed up. The military liked it when things went its way and her pushing against that was dangerous at best, but by now they were both sure to have found a solution that would make it harder to separate them.

But just the thought of Neil cutting him open, strengthening his spine with special metal encasements, left her queasy, as did the by now yellow and greenish bruises covering most of his torso.

“Because it looks horrifying and impressive at the same time, Bucky! I’ve never seen a man who’s blue and purple from neck to hip, and let me tell you, I’ve seen a great many things!”

After three more weeks at the public hospital, she could finally take him home with her, which had consisted of her telling him all the way, that he was to effing stop skipping. The Captain of the Mountain Guard had visited Buccaneer in the hospital, offering him a job and so the two weeks they had to themselves, were shared with two jobs, coursework and him visiting the hospital daily for rehabilitation. Their time together was limited at best and yet they’d somehow managed to shovel a weekend free and get some important matters out of the way.

And just a weekend later Sherry had shown up.

“That’s fine and all, but please stop staring. It’s creeping me out.”

His voice was as gruff as always, mirth twinkling in his eyes, but also a big portion of insecurity. They let their friend sleep on the couch, while she was in the application process at North Cities Public Hospital, their most visited place in the city. And so, evenings were shared now too, Olivier cooking today, while Sherry filled out some forms on their dinner table and Buccaneer watching from the couch, waiting for his upper body to dry by itself after a shower, towelling himself dry still too painful.

She couldn’t stop herself from chuckling at his reaction.

“There’s nothing funny about that!”

His mock anger just had her stir the soup more happily, the mood easy at home. Sherry was a nice guest though, helped around the flat and, while sometimes being nosy, respected their privacy as much as it was possible with the only truly separate room being the bathroom. It was relaxing, something her past self would probably unbelievingly scoff at, work stressful. The military was snooping around, constantly trying to recruit her colleagues, engineers in high demand. The mood in the Workshop was foul at best, several bureaus broken in to and searched. There was little question as to who the culprit was, but the military police proved itself incredibly unhelpful. And she, rather fresh, blue-coats constantly on her heels, only for a few weeks in charge of deciding who did which shift and who could go on vacation when, was the one to break the unloved news of a newly established guard-rooster. To say that she wasn’t the most popular person at work at the moment, was an understatement.

“Of course, there is! The two-meter man, afraid of little Sherry.”

She threw him a raised eyebrow over her shoulder, alongside a half-smile. Sherry’s cry of outrage was immediate and so loud that it made Buccaneer jump.

“I’m not small!?”

With a healthy yank, she lifted the pot and carried it to the table, Sherry pulling her papers aside without thinking about it. Olivier retorted without thinking.

“Okay, tiny then.”

Green eyes went wide and before Sherry could say something, Buccaneer butted in.

“Olivier’s right, your smaller than her. And she’s already quite small.”

He could not see her angry face while pulling a shirt over his head, but knew as soon as he emerged, that he’d said the wrong thing. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Sherry start to grin, roles reversed now.

“I’m not small, you’re just ridiculously huge!”

The table set, soup filling plates, they all sat down and dug in, Olivier still glowering at Buccaneer every now and then. It was Sherry that stirred them in different waters, though equally as dangerous.

“You heard anything from Miles?”

She’d known that the question would arise sooner rather than later, knew how much Sherry still felt for him. He’d not be mentioned in her letters, it being too dangerous, but no other man ever was either, no parties, no cafés, no bookstores. Olivier knew her friend long and well enough to understand, that those things weren’t the same for her without him.

It was Buccaneer who mustered up the courage to say something on the matter.

“He’s gone with one of my brothers to wander through the mountains and inform the families of the fallen, but that was back at the brink of spring.”

Her friend showed nerves now, did not keep on eating, but started at Buccaneer intently.

“I know as much Bucky, but there are news, aren’t there? Things you couldn’t write?”

It struck her when he started to speak again, how kind a man he was. Honest, yet kind, at least to those he cared about.

“My brother has returned to the family, but Miles was not with him. He sneaked away one night and while he’d been seen in Pefskey by some people my family knows, nobody is sure just where he is now. But there are some people on the lookout.”

Sherry shook, but did not cry. They’d decided together to not write her that, not even coded. Wanted to tell her in person, just so they could be there for her when she got the news.

Olivier stood before she knew it, hugging Sherry tight. Felt the silent tears soak into her shirt, felt Buccaneers reassuring hand on her back. It took some time, the soup growing cold in the pot, before Sherry could speak again. Even having it in her to smile at her friends.

“Then he’s alive at least, right?”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws the new chapter in like a hand-grenade*

They were cute.

They'd probably not want to hear it, but Olivier and Buccaneer together were incredibly cute to her. She watched them interact for almost three weeks now, sharing their already small living space and could oftentimes hardly keep herself from squealing.

Something, that was always accompanied by bewildered looks from the two.

"You sure you've got everything?"

The train-station was packed, she'd travel back to her parents for now. All three of them trying to wind their way through the unusual masses of people, which mainly consisted of Olivier and her walking behind Buccaneers wide back. It worked very well.

Sherry nodded.

"Yes, pretty much. And even if not: I'm coming back, so you'll hold onto it, right?"

Olivier smiling at her, a bit of nervousness showing.

She'd observed these past few weeks that while Olivier’s anxiety in crowds had seemingly considerably lessened, something she attributed to Buccaneer and her working on it, it was still prominent in a place like this. As such they cut through the people mostly silent, Buccaneer in front of them and heaps of people around them.

Sherry meanwhile using the slow pace to think about the two she'd lived with for a while now, finally together in the way she'd so long hoped they'd one day be.

When being picked up from the train station by Olivier she'd already seen the change in demeanour, the missing crutch and the sure-again step making her best friend seem much more like herself again. She'd grown her hair out further, it being a good hand past her shoulders now, curls usually springy finally too heavy to annoy Olivier with said springiness.

She'd let herself be led through the city, snow still almost everywhere, though according to Liv the weekend before had been snow-free and the temperatures in the double-digits. Found that hard to believe in her coat then, shivering until they reached a several stories tall building close to the northernmost parts of the city.

Had climbed too many stairs with Olivier, thoroughly winded when arriving at their door, though basking in the warmth of their apartment when sinking down on their couch.

Buccaneer had been out, worked as an emergency contact for the mountain rescue during his automail-implantation, Olivier though already having been done for that day with her job, showing her around the small rooms and just talking with her. It had felt like in the olden days again, back in their shared room at the boarding school, at their dorm at University. The rooms seeming not bigger by much, having her reminiscence.

It was a very small flat, the "rooms" only separated by a wall reaching into the room, but not the other side of it. Spotted their bed behind it, inwardly grinning that it was a double, that they really were one. The bathroom small too, the tiles horrible, the other side of the main-room kitchen, living room and dining room in one. The kitchen tiny, surely having seen better days, but clean and functional.

Little trinkets strewn about, the place giving off a homey feel, however spartan everything truly was.

Sherry spotted flowers hung-up to dry over their bed, and some of Olivier’s sketches on the wall. Found a photograph on a little table by the door, the two of them in front of some building which looked a lot like those she'd passed on her way there. Olivier wore a dress, which had her gasp and drew Olivier’s attention, white, long-sleeved and seeming to be covered with a layer of lace. Buccaneer standing behind her, arm wound around her waist, wearing cloth-pants and a nice shirt.

The sleeve on the one arm rolled up despite the temperatures probably still having been cold, which made her laugh.

She'd asked Liv where they'd been there, her friend replying, with a wide smile, that they'd been out in the city a little, just enjoying the nice weather. That there was someone who took pictures for a few cenz and that Buccaneer had insisted that they take one. And yes, that he'd insisted on buying her the bouquet of white carnations, too.

Olivier had even shown her the dress, a cheap thrift-shop find, just when Buccaneer had stepped through the door. Had greeted her best friend with a kiss, the first squeal of her stay having escaped her then. It had been far from the last.

She'd squealed next, when watching them cook in unison, Buccaneer seemingly having bought fresh things on his way home.

Sherry had asked if they did not have a fridge, the big guy only wordlessly opening the window and showing her a re-purposed flower box. Was still tall, was getting buff again, but moved in a very stilted manner.

Had seen his bruises not much later, looked at the scars from the operation and squealed again, when Liv spread a cream meant to help with the haematoma on them.

Squealed when she saw them sleep pressed together tightly, when going to the loo at night. Had squealed almost each time they kissed, hugged, or exchanged this wonderfully loving kind of banter. Squealed when they'd walked through the city together, consoled her when she missed Miles particularly, squealed when they celebrated her new job with her.

Squealed now, her platform finally reached, Buccaneer sitting down by Liv's order, but pulling her close, her bum resting against his remaining shoulder, his arm winding around her hip.

"Sherry, really? Still?!"

She squealed once more, just for good measure and to see Bucky dramatically roll his eyes.

“I’m just happy for you guys, so let me! Also, I won a lot of money with this, okay!”

Buccaneer laughed while Olivier sighed again.

“From whom?”

The big guy’s curiosity soon sated, when she listed of names, going on for quite a while.

Olivier’s scepticism not long after reaching her ears, arms folded in front of her chest.

“Ok, when all those people bet on us, and really, I’d have thought differently from Miles, then why did you win?!”

Sherry beamed.

“Because I was closest, concerning the when and where! I said you’d get together before your bachelors, most likely in a dorm room!”

Buccaneer laughed, his arm visibly squeezing where it was wrapped around Olivier, who spoke with a half-smile and a raised brow.

“I’m gonna regret asking, but what other locations and points in time were bet on?”

Sherry speaking through a barely supressed giggle.

“Well, Karley bet on you kissing after that one football-game, you know? Just right there on the field.”

Buccaneer sighed, his voice sounding pressed.

“It is always hard to find out that a friend does not know you as well as you thought.”

Through laughter she shared the next bet with them.

“Rebecca, a few years our junior, remember? She bet that you Bucky, would one day just snap at a party, Livvie being flirted with again and you just then and there kissing her and carrying her away!”

Before the big guy could do so much as grin widely, Olivier interjected.

“Yeah, sure. Like I let myself be carried around that easily!”

Buccaneers eyebrows rose to new heights, mouth pulled into a lopsided smirk.

“Oh, come on, you know how often I came close to doing that?! Remember that day Zolf Kimblee tried to smack your ass in passing?”

Sherry could hardly contain herself.

“Was that the time you…”

“Yes, I caught it mid-air. And it wasn’t all that hard to defend myself, so thank you very much!”

Olivier pressed her lips tightly together and rolled her eyes, Buccaneer on the other hand throwing his head back laughing, exclaiming loudly.

“You broke his wrist!”

Her friend tried to squirm out of Buccaneers embrace, though seemingly did not put her mind to it.

“It was an accident!”

“An accident you weren’t particularly sorry about!”

Sherry squealed yet again, when their eyes locked and fierce looks slowly turned to grins. Neither moving from their embrace.

Into the ensuing silence she spoke, voicing what she’d always perceived as the worst thing to bet on.

“And Mustang, that idiot, really thought that one of us would someday catch you to on a station platform, wearing rings and already married!”

It occurred to her that the looks they were now exchanging weren’t in exasperation, that their hole demeaner got a bit, she could hardly fathom it, guilty?

“Guys?”

Her train was rolling in and like fleas bit them Buccaneer and Olivier were suddenly busy. The latter helped the big guy up, who groaned only a little from all his bruises being jostled. Her suitcase was suddenly gone from the stones at her feet and in a series of movements quicker than she could comprehend, she was sitting inside of the train, her luggage put away, hanging out of the window, Liv and Bucky on the platform in front of it.

“When I move up here I’ll get dad to bring you the rest of your stuff, okay?”

Buccaneer reached the trains window easily with his height, not needing to shout.

“That would be great! A few more changes of clothes would be good.”

“Write us Sherry, okay?”

Olivier had to speak a lot louder than Bucky and her, which seemingly caused her no trouble at all.

“I will! But to get back to what Mustang bet on…”

The train started to move and however much Sherry tried to will it to stop again, it didn’t.

Yelled her goodbyes at the two staying behind on the platform, was sure that through the tears in her eyes she saw an arm yet again snake around Livs middle. Waved at them, while she saw that the smaller of the two was nestling around at her neck, pulling forth that ridiculous tooth-necklace.

The glint of something metallic easy to see from the distance.

“Assholes!”

Her scream of rage upon not being invited, lost in the wind.

* * *

 

_“I’m surprised.”_

_“Why?”_

_“She gave me the vacation I filed for, the exact dates I wanted too. Dunno why she acted so stilted about it when I first asked.”_

_“The old man always gave us the vacation we wanted, no questions asked.”_

The two men looked at him weirdly, yet he cared only very little about that. Was used to the stares his empty sleeve earned him, and to those a full head of black hair, grown out past his shoulder-blades again, got him. It was not a rare sight at all, tribesmen were plenty, as well as those left wounded by the most recent war. Yet the staring never stopped.

He was for the first time waiting for her at her workstation, the conversations he overheard interesting indeed.

_“You heard that she covered for Meyer’s night-shift yesterday? His wife went into labor early, so she let him go right away.”_

_“Really?! Man, and I griped on over breakfast, how she swapped with Herman because she couldn’t be bothered. Now I feel bad!”_

The summer had been a short one, the fall already covering them in a world of snow. As such, the winter now upon them was harder than usual. His second surgery was a good few months in the past by now, even so he still felt a great amount of discomfort. Knowing that some of your bones were encased in metal, that there was a rod of the stuff inside of you, was a weird thing to get used to.

Buccaneer was glad though, that most of the pain had subsided at least.

_“Heard that after New Year’s we’ll go work at the Fort again?”_

_“Really? I though since the old man stayed in Ishval the General up there wanted a new company?”_

_“Maya from accounting said that Armstrong convinced Payen that we’re still the best for the job.”_

_“Good for us I guess, right? The military always paid well.”_

Sherry was now a regular part of North Cities public hospital, had gotten a flat pretty close to them and her father had, true to his daughter’s words, brought up hers and their stuff in a lend car, which meant their flat had gotten a lot homier since then.

He was busy at work, the increasing snowfall having him do double-shifts more often than not, just so he could compensate for the times he could not work, during recovery periods. Yet, it worked well, Olivier and he had finally found a work- and private-life balance and saw each other much more often. Her studies went along well, and from what he heard, her colleagues finally started to respect her more.

“Hey, listen up blue-coat, get lost! We don’t need your kind here!”

Startled by the sudden address, he was confronted with a tall man, maybe ten or fifteen years his senior, with dark hair and a frown on his face. He was dressed in the dark-blue work-overall the worker at the Briggs workshop all wore, had his arms crossed in front of his chest and was looking at him with slitted eyes.

“I’m waiting for…”

The tone of the man was more than just impatient.

“Yeah, yeah! Know that speech already buddy! You’ waiting for Armstrong and want her to join the military again. Not happening, so get lost!”

Buccaneer tried to put on his most charming smile, which clearly did not impress the man.

“No, really, I’m not…”

“Hell boy, I see you are a few heads taller than me, but don’t think I wouldn’t throw you off the premises! I’m not afraid of you, so one last time…”

“Buccaneer?!”

Olivier was standing in the door, her backpack in hand, bundled up in coat, shawl, hat and a pair of gloves. Her face being almost completely hidden from the cold weather, her voice full of surprise, if a bit muffled.

“What are you doing here? You should be on the couch!”

Stomped through the snow towards them, winter boots looking bit on her feet.

“You know him Ma’am?”

The man that had tried to throw him off the premises seemed wary all of a sudden and waited almost impatiently for her answer.

“Yes Herman, that’s my husband.”

It was funny how the bristling anger from the man changed to a blush and an apology more stammered than spoken.

“I’m very sorry Sir, I’ve taken you for a recruiter! I did not mean to sound so menacing.”

Buccaneer grinned.

“Don’t worry about it, it’s a good thing you keep the blue-coats away like that. And I guess you’ve never seen me before, so it’s alright. Though Olivier,” looked at her, while she was adjusting the straps of her backpack. “I’m wounded that there’s not even a picture of me on your desk!”

The man named Herman standing between them, looking from one to the other.

“Think I’ll parade you around in front of the men, huh?”

“Would be alright for me.”

“If you fear about me being constantly flirted with, rest-assured that it’s not the case.”

“Please, you know me better than that!”

Olivier snorting at that answer, which had Herman don a totally surprised look. She caught herself quickly and clapped the bewildered man on the shoulder.

“Thanks for being on the lookout Herman and thank you again for covering my shift today.”

The man speaking somewhat hoarsely, while he turned to go together with her.

“Sure thing Chief, anytime.”

Their close trudge through the snow silent for the first few minutes, several pairs of eyes from the workshop trained on them. Looking back, Buccaneer spotted some men flocking around Herman.

“Why were you here?”

Her voice pulling him out of his reverie, drawing his gaze.

“Well, you had night-shift today, so I wanted to keep you company.”

“You get to keep me company at home then, this morning Herman talked me into swapping with him.”

Laughed against a gust of icy wind.

“And here I though that I’d had to fight for my time with you! But that’s nice of him, especially after your surprise-shift yesterday.”

She bumped into him when they let someone pass on the snow-narrowed walkways of North City.

“Herman’s a good guy. I wish more of the man would understand that I take my time with granting leave, so I can make sure there’s always enough people around for the work that needs to be done!”

“They’ll get around to it Liv, sooner or later. And there’s always fighting about vacation-times, at least that’s what my boss said.”

Olivier nudged him, her shawl slowly slipping over her mouth.

“Somebody giving you grief over the winter-vacation?”

Buccaneer shrugged.

“Some are moaning about it, because I’m gone pretty often with all the surgeries and check-ups. But I know that they totally forget me covering when they are gone, so, I don’t care much. But I guess it’s a bit more stressful, being in charge and having to juggle the leave of so many people at once?”

She sighed, the sound almost lost against another howling wind whipping around a corner.

“Some don’t seem aware that we’re getting more and more orders and commissions. You’d think they notice!”

“I heard you’re going to work at the Fort soon?”

Olivier nodded.

“After New Year’s, yes. They apparently tried to get their heating-system maintained by Wilson & Son’s, but they fluked the job. So, I sent up two of the new men to find the flaw and fix it, which they did. Now the General’s ordered a complete maintenance from us.”

“So, good money?”

It was he that fumbled with the keys to their building, during these weathers the door always firmly shut, lest snow trickled in. The howling stopping as soon as they were inside, the heat overwhelming for the first few moments.

On the first landing of the stairs Olivier removed her shawl, her speech a lot clearer.

“Yeah, really good money. We can use it too, the old Lady finally understood that she needs to re-invest money into the company, or we’ll be in a bad place again in no time.”

“So things looking good?”

They were walking up to their flat, still tiny, but something they’d grown fonder of with every month that had passed.

Things had stabilized for them, they had two steady incomes, however small his was and his surgeries for the automail went well. The military had again shifted him to their hospital right after his second surgery, but as Liv had walked in with a smug smile and their marriage license in hand, he’d soon enough been at the public hospital again.

Sherry had dropped by his room often there, a fixed part of their staff now, though she was still a little mad at them for not having been told about their marriage.

Olivier unlocked the door and let him in first, before she answered his question with a smile.

“Things looking real good!”

They lost their layers of insulation, slipped out of their boots and in the usual dance went around their flat.

He restocked the fire, while Liv got everything ready to cock. Blinds were drawn and the heater in the bathroom turned up. Both of them tiptoeing around half-packed bags, for their planned trip to his parents.

They’d taken his letter rather well, in which he’d informed them of his rather spontaneous marriage. They seemed wary, which he could understand to an extent. They did not know Olivier, could surely not fathom how they fit together. And yet he knew they’d come around.

“You wanna take a shower before we eat?”

Olivier looking at him from over her shoulder, shirt already pulled over her head.

“I’m feeling somewhat icky after today, so yeah. We have a problem with the water-heater at work, so our showers are cold.”

He shuddered at the mere thought of a cold shower, though threw her an appreciative glance while she shimmied out of her pants.

Her wounds had healed up so well over the past few months, besides the scars there was really nothing that seemed out of the ordinary anymore to him. And even all the scars were a part of her to him, as he cherished each and every one. She’d filled out a bit again too, but with every twist and turn of her body, muscles were coiling. When her eyes caught his, an eyebrow raised, he mourned that their shower was far too small to house the both of them.

“Food will be ready when you step out?”

She nodded with a smirk and vanished, while he prepared their supper. Wasn’t done when she stepped out of the bathroom with her hair in a towel and drying herself off, the only thing she wore now her necklace. The engraved tooth dangling on it, as well as the ring he had made.

Their rings were the same mix of metal his automail was made off, could be worn even in this cold weather and his automail engineer Neil had congratulated him for this grand idea and wanted to make a business out of northern jewellery.

His staring again noticed and smirked at, though sweatpants and a shirt she threw on, towelled her hair, long and wavy, with great care. Ate with him, and later tended to his bruises, rubbing in the cream they were now using for such a long time that it had become a ritual.

“We have it pretty good, huh?”

Her icy blues catching his eyes, an eyebrow raised. A third smirk pulling on her lips.

“Turning sob again?”

* * *

“How long is our stay?”

She watched when Buccaneer pulled a slip of paper from his pocket, looking at it.

“The next train takes off tomorrow at midday, so we have plenty of time. You know the way to the encampment?”

Their journey to his parents and family was long, their luggage stowed away at the small inn of the village, the snow around them high. She’d let him in on her little plan only a few hours ago, yet he was hooked instantly.

“There’s a path behind the village that should lead us directly to it.”

They’d bundled up, had packed a bag with necessities to take with them, should anything out of the ordinary happen in this weather. Had told the innkeeper that they were going on a hike and not to wait for them with dinner. The woman had nodded, had seemingly understood just where they wanted to go.

“Liv, mind telling me again how you found out where he is?”

He was walking in front of her, on this uneven terrain not turning around, but she could hear him well enough.

“Alex met someone from an unofficial refugee-camp near Central and learned through that about the one in the North. I talked to him about the whole thing with Miles and how he seemingly vanished, so Alex asked around a bit.”

Thinking about her younger brother still filled her with mixed feelings, the vast distance and it being hard to meet up with her siblings still gnawing on her. For a long while she’d heard nothing from her family, not since her father had send her the necklace in the mail. She’d never answered his letter and had wondered for the longest time, if her parents knew that she and Buccaneer had been engaged. That they were married.

Though she had no hard time imagining how they’d think about that.

“And you know Miles is there?”

She shrugged, though knowing full-well that he couldn’t see it. Hoped that he felt it instead.

“I hope so. For all we know he could be lying somewhere in the snow, frozen stiff.”

It had rubbed Olivier the wrong way that Miles had left the safety of Buccaneer’s family, however noble his cause was. They’d learned that the man had abandoned one of Buccaneer’s brothers at night, sneaking off when they were only a day-track away from the Buccaneer-family-tent.

It angered her even more that he’d not once written. That Sherry was worried sick by now.

“Well, I hope he doesn’t. Miles is usually too smart to put himself in such danger.”

Much of the journey continued in silence, the scenery around them breath-taking, the woods looking like a frozen wonderland. The prospect of meeting Buccaneers parents made her nervous, though if the sights to see further up north were anything like that, she’d be easily able to distract herself.

Only when they saw smoke in the distance, small rivulets rising into the sky, they exchanged a look.

Were met by an older man before they could enter the encampment, though Buccaneer swiftly explained why they were here and whom they were searching for.

She held up a picture they’d brought, the man’s brow furrowing.

Without much preamble they were led through the camp then, eyed curiously from all sides. Once or twice she saw people looking at Buccaneer, who claimed that it was not nearly cold enough to constitute wearing a hat like she did, whispering “bear” under their breaths.

Her gut clenching when they were then led past a row of makeshift-tombstones, feared the worst already, when led into a tent next to the stones.

A fire burning in its middle, the cold from the outside in large parts chased away by it, the old man inviting them to shed their coats and to get comfortable. Vanished for several minutes, while she and Buccaneer whispered.

“Was his name on any of the stones?”

“Did not see it.”

“Maybe they’ve mistaken him?”

Were huddled close, hands touching, when the old man re-entered the tent, a man in tow.

A white and bushy eyebrow raised when Miles screamed something in Ishvalan, a smile on his face wider than she’d ever seen, which was undoubtedly a swear-word.

Arms thrown around them before they could blink, Miles next words spoken in amestrian.

“Gosh, I missed you guys so much!”

They hugged him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carnation stands for eternal faithfulness in germany
> 
> ...this one is for and because of you, NorthernWall :,D

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, this story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), whose goal is to improve communication between readers and authors. The goal of it is to make commenting easier for readers and to increase the feedback writers get. As such, I invite you to leave:
> 
> _Short comments_   
>  _Long comments_   
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>  _extra-kudos as <3_
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> I cherish all comments, weather they be long or short, even only one word makes me squeal with happiness after all. And if you’re seeing this fic ten years after I published it, don’t worry: Old or new, I’ll still love what you left me to read <3 I answer to all comment btw, though it sometimes takes me a day or two. Should you not want me to answer, just write _whisper_ in front of it.  
>  I thank you for reading this fic of mine through to the end. As I said, I appreciate all comments and kudos and should you want to get into direct contact with me [this is my tumblr](http://illidria.tumblr.com/). There you can get into discussions with me, or even send in wish-fics.  
> Happy reading and thank you <3


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